LIBRARY 

univEnsmr  or 

CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


'•'      I 

e  f 


SOME  RHYMES 


SOME  RHYMES 


OF 


IRONQUILL 


OF  KANSAS 


"I'll  wear  Arcturus  for  a  bosom  pin" 


CHICAGO 
A.  C.  McCLURG  AND  COMPANY. 

1892 


COPYRIGHT, 
BY  A.  C.  MCCLURG  AND  Co. 

A.  D.   1892. 


PREFACE. 

When  back  into  the  alphabet 
The  critic's  satires  shall  have  crumbled, 
When  into  dust  his  hand  is  humbled, 

One  verse  of  mine  may  linger  yet. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

THE  WASHERWOMAN'S  SONG  9 

AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  IRONQUILL  -               -  12 

KRITERION               -  18 

THE  FISHER  MAIDEN      -  20 

POLITICS                                                                  -  22 

THE  MINNESONG  -       24 

THE  GRANGER'S  TEXT  26 

THE  KANSAS  HERDER     -  28 

THE  KANSAS  OCTOBER  29 

THE  SERENADE                -               -               -  -       31 

THE  Now                ....  33 

THE  PRE-EMPTOR            -               -               -  -       36 

THE  SUNSET  MARMATON        ...  39 

SUPERSTITION                  -               -               -  -       43 

WHIST      -                                                              -  44 

GRIZZLY-GRU  -               -               -'               -  45 

TARPEIA  49 

KARMYL           -  52 

THE  AZTEC  CITY    -                                               -  55 

THE  GEESE  AND  THE  CRANES        -              -  -       58 

AN  ITALIAN  SONNET  60 

FAILURE           •               -               -               -  -       61 

QUESTION                -  64 

THE  SIEGE  OF  DJKLXPRWBZ          -               -  66 

GLORY      -  67 
FRAUDS            -                              ...       68 

THE  PROTEST          ....  70 

SHADOW           -  72 

TYPE        .....  73 

THE  TOBACCO  STEMMERS              -              -  -       74 

CHAOS     -                ....  77 

A  KANSAS  IDYL              -              -              -  78 

"  O'ER  SUNNY  KANSAS"         ...  80 

THE  BIRD  SONG             -               -              -  -       81 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

QUIVERA — KANSAS  85 

THREE  STATES                -               -               -  -       89 

PRINTER'S  INK        ....  90 

A  HOLY  WAR                                -              -  -       91 

THE  CRUSADES        ....  93 

NETSIE             -               -               -               -  94 

THE  COWCATCHER                  ...  95 

THE  UNSOCIABLE  MILESTONES      -               -  -       97 

ZEPHYR    -  99 

PAVO  -  -  101 
THE  LIFE  INSURANCE  AGENT  AND  THE  POST  AUGER  103 

THE  VIOLET  STAR  -  -  -  -  104 
"  THE  ANCHORS  ARE  STRONG  THAT  HOLD  THE  SHIPS"  105 
CHILDHOOD  -  ...  106 

EL  MORAN                                                              -  107 

THE  OLD  PIONEER                        -  -     109 

JOHN  BROWN                                          -               -  Ill 

LIFE'S  MOONRISE                            -  -     114 

THE  PYTHIAN                         -               -               -  116 

VICTOR  -     117 

"FEAR  YE  HIM"     -                               -  118 

TO-DAY             -               -               -  .     119 

DECORATION  DAY  ....  120 
THE  DEFAULTER  ...  124 

THE  CHILD  OF  FATE                             -  126 

LEGOUSIN  Ai    -               -               -               -  -      128 

PHOTO-GRAPH-U-IST                               -  129 

THE  KANSAS  DUG-OUT                  -               -  -     133 

THE  BLUE-BIRD  OF  NOVEMBER             -  135 

THE  PRAIRIE  STORM      -  -     139 

THE  REAL                -  141 

IN  THE  SUPREME  COURT,  STATE  OF  KANSAS  -     143 

THE  ORGAN  GRINDER                             -  148 

AN  AGREED  STATEMENT  OF  FACTS               -  -     153 

A  CORN  POEM  -  -  163 
THE  MEDICINE  MAN  ....  175 

ADIEU      .....  187 


SOME  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL 


THE  WASHERWOMAN'S  SONG. 

In  a  very  humble  cot, 

In  a  rather  quiet  spot, 

In  the  suds  and  in  the  soap, 
Worked  a  woman  full  of  hope ; 

Working,  singing,  all  alone, 

In  a  sort  of  undertone  : 
"  With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 

Sometimes  happening  along, 

I  had  heard  the  semi-song, 
And  I  often  used  to  smile, 
More  in  sympathy  than  guile; 

But  I  never  said  a  word 

In  regard  to  what  I  heard, 
As  she  sang  about  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 


10  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

Not  in  sorrow  nor  in  glee 
Working  all  day  long  was  she, 
As  her  children,  three  or  four, 
Played  around  her  on  the  floor ; 
But  in  monotones  the  song 
She  was  humming  all  day  long  : 
"  With  the  Savior  for  a  friend, 
He  will  keep  me  to  the  end." 

It's  a  song  I  do  not  sing, 

For  I  scarce  believe  a  thing 
Of  the  stories  that  are  told 
Of  the  miracles  of  old  ; 

But  I  know  that  her  belief 

Is  the  anodyne  of  grief, 
And  will  always  be  a  friend 
That  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Just  a  trifle  lonesome  she, 
Just  as  poor  as  poor  could  be  ; 
But  her  spirits  always  rose, 
Like  the  bubbles  in  the  clothes, 
And,  though  widowed  and  alone, 
Cheered  her  with  the  monotone, 
Of  a  Savior  and  a  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 


THE   WASHERWOMAN'S  SONG.  11 

I  have  seen  her  rub  and  scrub, 

On  the  washboard  in  the  tub, 
While  the  baby,  sopped  in  suds, 
Rolled  and  tumbled  in  the  duds; 

Or  was  paddling  in  the  pools, 

With  old  scissors  stuck  in  spools ; 
She  still  humming  of  her  friend 
Who  would  keep  her  to  the  end. 

Human  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Have  their  root  in  human  needs; 

And  I  should  not  wish  to  strip 

From  that  washerwoman's  lip 
Any  song  that  she  can  sing, 
Any  hope  that  songs  can  bring ; 

For  the  woman  has  a  friend 

Who  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 


12  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


AN  OPEN  LETTER  TO  IRONQUILL. 

DEAR  SIR:  I  have  read  again  and  again,  with 
indescribable  pleasure  and  sadness,  your  "Washer 
woman's  Song" — pleasure,  because  it  is  really  beauti 
ful,  and  voices  correctly  the  joy  of  Christ's  poor  ones ; 
sadness,  because  you  say  you  are  shut  out  from  a  hope, 
which,  though  not  always  so  bright  and  cheerful,  is 
worth  more  than  all  else  this  world  affords.  You  will 
pardon  me  for  addressing  you  in  this  public  manner, 
for  I  know  that  many  men  of  intellect  and  culture 
occupy  positions  not  dissimilar  to  your  own,  and  I 
hope  in  this  way  to  make  some  suggestions  which  will 
reach  both  you  and  them,  and  not  be  inappropriate  to 
the  subject,  whether  they  shall  prove  valuable  or  use 
less.  Reading  between  the  lines,  I  think  I  can  see  a 
thorough  interest,  a  sort  of  inquiry,  a  desire  to  possess 
a  hope  like,  or  at  least  equal  to,  that  of  the  heroine  of 
your  song.  If  this  were  not  so,  I  could  scarcely  inter 
est  myself  sufficiently  to  write  you,  for  I  confess  I  have 
but  little  patience  with  that  class  of  criticism  that  flip 
pantly  brushes  aside  the  mysteries  of  God,  Christ 
and  immortality  as  fit  only  for  the  contemplation  of 
"women  and  children."  To  me  these  mysteries  are 
the  profoundest  depths.  I  have  no  plummet  heavy 
enough,  nor  line  long  enough,  to  reach  the  bottom. 
I  may  push  them  aside  for  a  time,  while  other  things 


AN  OPEN  LETTER.  13 

engross  me,  but  they  come  unbidden  again  and  again 
across  my  path.  It  is  so  with  you. 

What  is  God  ?  It  may  be  sufficient  for  some  to 
answer,  "  God  is  a  spirit,  infinite,"  etc.;  but  this  an 
swer  gives  but  very  little  light  to  me.  And  yet  I 
know  that  I  am  amenable  to  laws  definite  and  certain, 
with  penalties  positive  and  fixed,  which  I  never  made 
or  agreed  to  have  made,  and  which  I  can  never  change, 
even  in  the  most  minute  particular.  Whence  these 
laws  ?  Is  nature,  with  its  exactitude,  a  chance?  Who 
believes  that?  I  have  doubted  whether  there  is  a 
God,  but  I  never  disbelieved  it.  Bringing  all  my 
reason  to  bear  upon  it,  I  find  that  the  best  I  can  do 
is  to  dismiss  the  doubt  as  far  as  I  can,  and  accept 
the  fact. 

Still  but  little  is  gained  practically.  The  laws 
are  known,  and  the  consequences  of  disobedience  are 
also  known.  What  matters  it  whence  the  laws  come  ? 
I  have  never  seen  God ;  I  shall  not  see  him  with  these 
eyes.  I  do  not  understand  the  methods  of  his  gov 
ernment.  They  seem  to  be  harsh  and  severe  as  often 
as  they  are  kind  and  merciful.  Death  takes,  all  too 
soon,  the  gentle  mother  from  her  untrained  child,  as 
well  as  the  worthless  vagabond  of  whom  the  world  is 
well  rid.  You  do  not  understand  it  any  better  than  I, 
but  the  fact  remains.  To  know,  then,  that  there  is  a 
God  is  nothing  to  us,  unless  it  be  a  foundation  upon 
which  we  can  build  something  more  ? 

Who  then  was  Christ  of  whom  the  washerwoman 
sung  day  after  day? 

That  such  a  man  existed  is  not  doubted.     Think 


14  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

over  all  the  best  men  you  ever  knew,  and  then  select 
the  very  best,  and  tell  me  if  he  does  not  fall  too  far 
short  for  comparison.  There  are  as  good  men  living 
now  as  ever  lived — men  fully  equal  to  Daniel,  Isaiah 
or  John,  and  far  better  than  Moses,  David,  or  Peter. 
Among  the  best  Christ  stands  alone ;  and  yet  he  was 
the  boldest  impostor  that  ever  appeared  on  the  earth, 
if  he  was  not  divine.  Christ  was  and  is  a  fact.  He 
comes  across  our  way  and  must  be  disposed  of.  He 
was  either  the  exemplification  of  God  to  men,  or  a 
most  transparent  fraud  and  hypocrite.  I  have  doubted 
whether  he  was  "  God  manifest  in  the  flesh,"  but  I 
never  disbelieved  it.  If  he  was  divine,  then — 

"  The  stones  that  are  told 
Of  the  miracles  of  old" 

are  easy  of  belief. 

As  to  the  proofs  of  immortality,  you  have  doubt 
less  pondered  them  well.  They  rest  partly  on  God 
and  Christ,  and  partly  on  the  unsatisfying  nature  of 
this  life.  It  is  said  that  the  average  human  life  is 
thirty-four  years.  Who  can  say  that  it  is  worth  living 
if  this  is  all  ?  Pleasure  and  pain,  joy  and  sorrow, 
light  and  darkness,  are  about  as  equally  distributed  as 
day  and  night.  Who  that  has  lived  it  would  ask  to 
live  it  again  in  just  the  same  way,  and  without  any 
benefit  from  the  experience  already  passed  ?  Infancy 
prattles  into  childhood,  childhood  glides  into  youth, 
youth  leaps  into  manhood,  and  manhood  goes  grudg 
ingly  into  old  age  ;  and  in  each  succession  the  dreamer 
anticipates  that  the  next  will  bring  something  more 


AN  OPEN  LETTER.  15 

substantial  and  satisfactory,  but  the  anticipation  is 
never  realized,  and  the  substantial  and  satisfactory 
never  come.  Do  you  not  find  it  so  ?  I  have  doubted 
my  immortality,  but  I  never  disbelieved  it. 

If  you  ask  me  why  the  truth  as  to  these  momen 
tous  matters  is  not  more  clearly  revealed,  or  why  we 
were  not  given  reason  and  judgment  to  fathom  and 
understand  them,  I  answer  I  do  not  know.  But  that 
does  not  dispose  of  them.  If  I  were  to  ask  you  why 
you  have  not  reason  and  judgment  to  decide  at  once, 
and  wisely,  the  ten  thousand  questions  of  every-day 
life,  your  answer  would  be,  "  I  do  not  know."  But 
nevertheless  you  go  on  reasoning,  doubting,  deciding, 
and  doubting  after  you  decide,  fortunate  indeed  if  you 
are  generally  right,  and  certain  indeed  to  be  often 
wrong. 

I  have  written  thus  far  so  as  to  be  able  to  say  that 
when  you  write  "  I  scarce  believe  a  thing,"  your  true 
position  is,  that  you  doubt  whether  the  woman  has  a 
real  foundation  upon  which  to  build  her  song.  And  if 
I  am  right  in  this,  then  further  to  suggest  that  there 
is  nothing  unusual  or  unreasonable  in  such  a  doubt. 
Nay,  more  :  when  reason,  judgment,  and  all  other  fac 
ulties  and  means  for  arriving  at  truth  are  imperfect,  it 
seems  to  me  that  a  perfect  faith  is  unattainable,  and 
doubt  becomes  a  necessity.  To  questions  like  these, 
and  many  others,  there  is  no  absolute  demonstration 
here  and  now. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  the  woman  did  not 
always  have  that  serene  faith  which  you  ascribe  to 
her?  Do  you  not  know  that  she  often  wondered,  and 


16  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

wondering  doubted,  not,  perhaps,  whether  there  is  a 
God,  but  whether  he  is  merciful,  or  even  just?  Do 
you  not  know  that  to  her  it  is  an  unsolved  problem 
why  she  was  left  alone  to  support  four  children  at  one 
dollar  a  day,  when  you  could  make  twenty  dollars  a 
day  at  work  less  burdensome  and  exhaustive  ?  If  she 
had  called  on  you,  when  passing  her  door,  to  explain 
this  problem  to  her  poor  understanding,  what  could 
you  have  said  ?  She  probably  knew  it  was  as  inex 
plicable  to  you  as  to  her,  and  therefore  did  not  ask. 
There  is  an  answer,  but  neither  you  nor  I  occupy  a 
plane  sufficiently  exalted  fully  to  comprehend  and 
speak  it — "  Even  so,  Father,  for  so  it  seemeth  good  in 
thy  sight." 

There  are  two  classes  of  persons  who  never  have 
doubts  :  the  one,  who  see  through  these  mysteries  at 
a  glance,  or  think  they  do  ;  and  the  other,  "who  never 
had  a  dozen  thoughts  in  all  their  lives." 

The  washerwoman  sung  away  most  of  hers  in  her 
beautiful  song ;  and  shall  we,  who  cannot  sing,  linger 
about  Doubting  Castle  until  old  Giant  Despair  entices 
us  into  his  gloomy  prison-house ?  No;  for  while  we 
see  that  there  is  doubt  in  reason,  we  will  hold  that 
there  must  be  reason  in  doubt,  and  it  must  itself  be 
dragged  into  the  light,  subjected  to  the  severest  scru 
tiny,  and  made  our  help  rather  than  our  ruin. 

Galileo  called  doubt  the  "father  of  invention." 

"Who  never  doubted  never  half  believed — where 
doubt,  there  truth  is.  It  is  its  shadow." 

One  not  given  much  to  doubt,  and  never  to  de- 


AN  OPEN  LETTER.  17 

spair,  has  said  :  "  Now  we  see  through  a  glass  darkly." 
But  there  is  a  light — that  light  is  Christ  as  revealed  in 
the  Scriptures.  Blot  it  out,  and  the  darkness  is  to  me 
impenetrable. 

I  have  said  nothing  of  the  unseen  help  that  comes 
to  the  weak  of  faith.  Though  mysterious,  I  believe  in 
it.  Your  heroine  knew  of  it.  The  heathen  seem  to 
grasp  it  as  if  by  instinct,  and  have  crystallized  it  into 
the  maxim,  "  The  gods  help  them  that  help  them 
selves."  Faith  will  grow  if  cultivated  by  good  works, 
and  the  unseen  help  will  be  a  friend  that  will  keep  us 

to  the  end. 

Very  truly  yours, 

N.  C.  McFARLAND. 
Washington,  D.  C. 


18  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

KRITERION. 

[A  reply  to  Jiidge  McFarland.~\ 

I  see  the  spire, 

I  see  the  throng, 
I  hear  the  choir, 

I  hear  the  song ; 
I  listen  to  the  anthem,  while 
It  pours  its  volume  down  the  aisle ; 
I  listen  to  the  splendid  rhyme 
That,  with  a  melody  sublime, 
Tells  of  some  far-off,  fadeless  clime — 
Of  man  and  his  finality, 
Of  hope,  and  immortality. 

Oh,  theme  of  themes  ! 

Are  men  mistaught  ? 
Are  hopes  like  dreams, 
To  come  to  naught  ? 
Is  all  the  beautiful  and  good 
Delusive  and  misunderstood  ? 
And  has  the  soul  no  forward  reach  ? 
And  do  indeed  the  facts  impeach 
The  theories  the  teachers  teach  ? 


KRITERION.  19 

And  is  this  immortality 
Delusion,  or  reality? 

What  hope  reveals 

Mind  tries  to  clasp, 
But  soon  it  reels 

With  broken  grasp. 
No  chain  yet  forged  on  anvil's  brink 
Was  stronger  than  its  weakest  link ; 
And  are  there  not  along  this  chain 
Imperfect  links  that  snap  in  twain 
When  caught  in  logic's  tensile  strain  ? 
And  is  not  immortality 
The  child  of  ideality? 

And  yet — at  times — 

We  get  advice 
That  seems  like  chimes 

From  paradise ; 

The  soul  doth  sometimes  seem  to  be 
In  sunshine  which  it  cannot  see  ; 
At  times  the  spirit  seems  to  roam 
Beyond  the  land,  above  the  foam, 
Back  to  some  half-forgotten  home. 
Perhaps — this  immortality 
May  be  indeed  reality. 


20  RH  YMES  OF  IR  ONQ  UILL. 


THE  FISHER  MAIDEN. 

Thou  maiden  with  eyes  so  dreamy, 
Thou  child  of  the  waves  and  spray, 

Thy  home  is  beside  the  ocean, 
Where  wearisome  breakers  play. 

Come,  sit  thee  down  here  beside  me 
And  list  to  the  words  I  say. 

My  heart  is  a  stormy  ocean, 
And  out  on  its  rocky  slopes 

The  turbulent  waves  are  flinging 
The  spars,  the  keels  and  the  ropes  :- 

The  wrecks  of  my  aspiration, 
The  wrecks  of  my  stranded  hopes. 

My  heart  is  an  angry  ocean. 

The  gales,  as  they  come  and  go, 
Bestrew  it  with  wreck  and  ruin, 

But  down  in  its  waves  below, 
The  pearls  and  the  red-ripe  corals 

Unselfishly  gleam  and  glow. 


THE  FISHER  MAIDEN.  21 

O !  launch  on  this  stormy  ocean, 
Thou  child  of  the  waves  and  spray; 

Thy  boat  will  be  borne  securely, 
Until,  at  the  close  of  day, 

The  crimson  of  life's  last  twilight 
Shall  fade  in  the  west  away. 


22  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


POLITICS. 

Many  the  childhood  friends  of  mine 

That  started  ahead  of  me, 
Fearless  in  ignorance,  buoyant  in  hope, 

To  sail  on  the  vitriol  sea. 
Little  they  knew  of  the  depth  or  the  scope 

Of  the  treacherous  vitriol  sea. 

Some  of  them  sailed  in  painted  boats, 

Most  beautiful  things  to  see  : 
Gossamer  boats  of  ephemeral  wood, 

As  fragile  as  ever  could  be  ; 
Soon  to  discover  that  wood  was  not  good 

In  the  cankering  vitriol  sea. 

Many  tried  brass,  and  some  tried  glass, 

To  sail  on  the  vitriol  sea, 
Mindless  alike  of  corrosion  or  storms 

They  sailed  with  hilarious  glee, 
Happy  to-day,  but  to-morrow  in  swarms 

To  be  sunk  in  the  vitriol  sea. 


POLITICS.  23 

"Where  did  they  wish  to  go,"  you  ask, 

"  That  sailed  on  the  vitriol  sea?  " 
That  is  a  something  I  never  shall  know, 

Tis  a  mystery  even  to  me. 
Still  they  did  go,  and  continue  to  go, 

And  sail  on  the  vitriol  sea. 


24  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  MINNESONG. 

Once  a  falcon  I  possessed  ; 

And  full  many  a  knight  and  vassal 

Watched  him  from  my  father's  castle, 
As,  in  gaudy  ribbon  dressed, 

He  would  seek  with  fiery  eye 

Battle  in  the  roomy  sky, 
And  return  to  be  caressed. 

Once  a  lover  I  possessed  ; 

On  the  field  of  battle  knighted, 

And  at  tournaments,  delighted, 
Did  I  watch  his  fiery  crest. 

Woven  from  the  silken  strands 

By  my  own  unaided  hands, 
Was  the  baldric  on  his  breast. 

But  one  day  my  bird  did  soar, 
When  the  sky  was  black  and  stormy  ; 
And  my  knight,  whose  fondness  for  me 

Seemed  as  changeless  as  before, 


THE  MINNESONG,  25 

Rode  away  in  the  crusade  ; 
And  as  years  successive  fade, 
They  return  to  me  no  more. 


Ah  !     In  every  land  and  tongue — 
Loved  by  emperor  and  vassal, 
Serf  in  hovel,  knight  in  castle — 

Ever  old  yet  ever  young, 
Sung  until  the  hours  grew  late, 
Was  the  song  of  love  and  fate 

Which  the  minnesinger  sung. 


26  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  GRANGER'S  TEXT. 

Long  the  Topeka  convention  wrangled, 

"  Good  men  for  office  "  got  into  a  balk, 
Grange  nominations  were  hopelessly  tangled, 
Sargent  got  up  and  gave  them  a  talk; 
Said  to  the  delegates  quarreling  so: 
"  Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 

Many  a  time  I  have  thought  of  the  quarrel 

That  "good  men  for  office  "  so  often  reach ; 
Many  a  time  I  have  thought  that  a  moral 
Shone  like  a  lantern  in  Sargent's  speech, 
When  he  suggested  to  friend  and  foe, 
"  Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 

When  a  fierce  editor,  boiling  with  fury, 

Paints  you  with  hot  editorial  tar, 
Don't  start  a  libel  suit,  don't  hire  a  jury, 
Don't  seek  redress  from  the  bench  or  the  bar ; 
Lies  sometimes  vanish,  facts  always  grow, 
"  Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 

When  you  consent  to  be  placed  on  a  ticket, 
When  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  run, 


THE  GRANGER'S  TEXT,  27 

Speed  it  your  best — the  political  thicket 

Tears  off  your  clothes,  but  makes  lots  of  fun ; 
If  you  are  minus  a  vote  or  so, 
"  Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 

Efforts  and  hopes  may  be  lighter  or  graver, 

Either  in  politics,  business,  or  fame  ; 
Things  may  go  crooked,  and  friendships  may  waver, 
Nevertheless,  the  rule  is  the  same  ; 

Facts  will  be  facts ;  when  you  find  it  so, 
"  Smooth  it  over  and  let  it  go." 


28  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  KANSAS  HERDER. 

He  rode  by  starlight  o'er  the  prairies  dim, 
While  melancholy,  with  an  aimless  whim, 
Through  trackless  grass  was  blindly  leading  him. 

And  then  he  said  :  "  Beneath  the  heavens'  blue  curve, 
There  has  been  fate  misfortune  would  not  serve ; 
There  has  been  love  misfortune  could  not  swerve." 

But  as  he  spake  these  words,  it  seemed  that  they 
Fell  volatile,  like  autumn  leaves,  and  lay 
Till  zephyrs  came  and  swept  them  all  away. 

And  then  he  said :  "  O  words  of  love,  alas  ! 
As  light  as  feathers,  frangible  as  glass, 
The  last  to  come,  and  yet  the  first  to  pass." 

The  prairie,  ever  echoless,  could  make 
No  answer  back.  Impassible,  opaque, 
The  night  air  smothered  what  he  wildly  spake. 

The  prairie  larks  sang  at  the  break  of  day ; 
He  heard  them  not,  but  as  he  lifeless  lay 
He  wore  a  smile,  faint,  thoughtful,  far  away. 


THE  KANSAS  OCTOBER.  29 


THE  KANSAS  OCTOBER. 

The  cheeriness  and  charm 

Of  forest  and  of  farm 
Are  merging  into  colors  sad  and  sober  ; 

The  hectic  frondage  drapes 

The  nut  trees  and  the  grapes — 
September  yields  to  opulent  October. 

The  cottonwoods  that  fringe 

The  streamlets  take  the  tinge ; 
Through  opal  haze  the  sumac  bush  is  burning ; 

The  lazy  zephyrs  lisp, 

Through  cornfields  dry  and  crisp, 
Their  fond  regrets  for  days  no  more  returning. 

The  farm  dog  leaves  the  house 

To  flush  the  timid  grouse  ; 
The  languid  steers  on  blue-stem  lawns  are  feeding ; 

The  evening  twilight  sees 

The  rising  Pleiades, 
While  autumn  suns  are  to  the  south  receding. 

To  me  there  comes  no  thrill 
Of  gloominess  or  chill, 


30  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

As  leaflets  fade  from  branches  elm  or  oaken  , 

As  lifelessly  they  hang, 

To  me  there  comes  no  pang  ; 
To  me  no  grief  the  falling  leaves  betoken. 

As  summer's  floral  gems 

Bequeath  us  withered  stems, 
And  autumn-shattered  relics  dry  and  umber ; 

So  do  these  lives  of  ours, 

Like  summer  leaves  and  flowers, 
Flourish  apace,  and  in  their  ripeness  slumber. 


THE  SERENADE.  31 


THE  SERENADE. 

Through  waning  light 

The  angel  of  the  night, 
With  silver  sickle,  reaped  the  western  stars  ; 

Across  my  sleep, 

Dreamless  as  well  as  deep, 
There  came  a  ballad,  whose  remembered  bars 

Brought  back  to  me  a  day 

That  long  had  passed  away. 

An  old,  old  song, 

Although  forgotten  long, 
Brings  childhood  back  as  songs  alone  can  bring. 

We  see  bright  eyes, 

Behold  unclouded  skies, 
And  re-inhale  the  fragrance  of  life's  spring  ; 

While,  as  of  unseen  bird, 

Rustle  of  wing  is  heard. 

Shall  our  last  sleep 
Eternal  stillness  keep? 
Shall  pulseless  dust  enclose  a  dreamless  soul  ? 


32  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Or  shall  we  hear 
Those  songs  so  old  and  dear, 
As  mid  tempestuous  melodies  there  roll 
Upon  our  waking  ears 
The  choruses  of  spheres  ? 


THE  NOW. 


THE  NOW. 

"he  charm  of  a  love  is  its  telling,  the  telling  that  goes 

with  the  giving ; 
The  charm  of  a  deed  is  its  doing ;  the  charm  of  a  life 

is  its  living; 
The  soul  of  the  thing  is  the  thought;  the  charm  of  the 

act  is  the  actor  ; 
The  soul  of  the  fact  is  its  truth,  and  the  NOW  is  its 

principal  factor. 

The  world  loves  the  Now  and  the  Nowist,  and  tests  all 

assumptions  with  rigor, 
It  looks  not  behind  it  to  failing,  but  forward  to  ardor 

and  vigor ; 
It  cares  not  for  heroes  who  faltered,  for  martyrs  who 

hushed  and  recanted, 
For  pictures  that   never  were   painted,  for  harvests 

that  never  were  planted. 

The  world  does  not  care  for  a  fragrance  that  never  is 
lost  in  perfuming, 


34  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  world  does  not  care  for  the  blossoms,  that  wither 

away  before  blooming. 
The  world  does  not  care  for  the  chimes,  remaining 

unrung  by  the  ringer, 
The  world  does  not   care   for  the   songs,    unsung  in 

the  soul  of  the  singer. 

What  use  to  mankind  is  a  purpose  that  never  shone 

forth  in  a  doer  ? 
What  use  has  the  world  for  a  loving  that  never  had 

winner  nor  wooer? 
The  motives,  the  hopes,  and  the  schemes  that  have 

ended  in  idle  conclusions 
Are  buried  along  with  the  failures  that  come  in  a  life 

of  illusions. 

Away  with   the   flimsy  idea  that  life  with  a  past  is 

attended, 
There's  Now — only  Now — and  no  Past — there's  never 

a  past;  it  has  ended. 
Away  with  its  obsolete  story  and  all  of  its  yesterday 

sorrow ; 
There's  only  to-day,   almost  gone,  and   in   front  of 

to-day  stands  to-morrow. 

And  hopes  that  are  quenchless  are  brought  us  like 
loans  from  a  generous  lender, 


THE  NOW.  35 

Enriching  us  all  in  our  efforts,  yet  making  no  poorer 

the  sender ; 
Lightening  all  of  our  labors,  and  thrilling  us  ever  and 

ever 
With  the  ecstasy  of  success  and  the  raptures  of  present 

endeavor. 


36  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  PRE-EMPTOR. 


While  turning  furrows  on  a  Kansas  prairie 

Cares  half  imaginary 
Come  trooping  through  my  brain,  then  skip  away 

Like  antelopes  at  play. 
All  day  I  watch  the  furrow  slices  slide 

Along  the  mould-board  steel ; 

But  when  night  comes  I  feel 
Along  my  brain  strange  restful  fancies  glide. 

Although  my  home  may  be  a  humble  shanty, 

With  fittings  rude  and  scanty, 
Each  night  a  kind  magician  comes  to  see, 

And  hand  the  world  to  me : — 
I  see  a  grand  cathedral.     On  a  hill 

I  note  a  Moorish  tower 

And  orange  trees  in  flower. 
It  is  the  graceful  city  of  Seville. 

The  evening  lights  upon  the  ripples  twinkle, 
I  hear  the  mule-bells  tinkle, 


THE  PRE-EMPTOR.  37 

And  organs  peal,  and  twittering  mandolins, 

As  fragrant  night  begins. 
I  see  Giralda,  in  dissolving  views, 

And  purple  shadows  fade 

In  glorious  brocade ; 
I  watch  the  twilight  of  the  Andaluz. 

I  hand  the  world  back  to  my  necromancer 

And  make  to  him  no  answer. 
Next  day  I  hear  the  rattle  just  the  same 

Of  clevis  and  of  hame. 
But  when  night  comes,  emerging  from  the  dark 

I  see  the  sunrise  steal 

Across  the  Campanile, 
And  bronze  the  flying  lion  of  St.  Mark. 

I  gaze  on  ducal  palaces  adorning 

The  Grand  Canal,  at  morning. 
I  view  the  ancient  trophies  that  have  come 

Torn  from  Byzantium. 
I  see  what  colors  Tintoretto's  were. 

Upon  the  mole  I  hear 

The  gaudy  gondolier, — 
Then — hand  the  world  back  to  my  sorcerer. 

The  griefs  that  flock  like  rabbits  in  a  warren 
To  me  are  wholly  foreign. 


J  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

No  help,  no  cheer,  no  sympathy  I  ask  ; 

I'm  equal  to  my  task. 
Though  small  my  holdings  when  the  sun  may  shine, 

When  evening  comes  my  cares 

Steal  from  me  unawares, 
And  then  the  earth  I  love  so  much  is  mine. 


THE  SUNSET  MARMA  TON.  39 


THE  SUNSET  MARMATON  . 

O  Marmaton  !     O  Marmaton  ! 
From  out  the  rich  autumnal  west 
There  creeps  a  misty,  pearly  rest, 

As  through  an  atmosphere  of  dreams. 
Along  thy  course,  O  Marmaton, 

A  rich  September  sunset  streams. 
Thy  purple  sheen, 
Through  prairies  green, 
From  out  the  burning  west  is  seen. 

I  watch  thy  fine, 

Approaching  line, 

That  seems  to  flow  like  blood-red  wine 
Fresh  from  the  vintage  of  the  sun. 
The  spokes  of  steel 
And  blue  reveal 

The  outlines  of  a  phantom  wheel, 
While  airy  armies,  one  by  one, 

March  out  on  dress  parade. 
I  see  unrolled, 
In  blue  and  gold, 

The  guidons  where  the  line  is  made, 
And,  where  the  lazy  zephyrs  strolled 


40  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

Along  thy  verdant  esplanade, 
I  see  the  crested,  neighing  herd 

Go  plunging  to  the  stream. 

I  hear  the  flying,  shrieking  scream 
Of  startled  bird. 
The  Kansas  day  is  done. 

O  Marmaton  !     O  Marmaton  ! 

Thou  hast  no  story  and  no  song ; 
Unto  the  vast 
And  empty  past, 
In  which  thy  former  life  was  cast, 

Thou  dost  not  yet  belong. 
No  mountain  cradle  hast  thou  had ; 

Along  thy  line 

No  summits  shine, 
No  cliffs,  no  gorges,  stern  and  sad, 
Stand  in  the  waning  twilight,  clad 

In  melancholy  pine. 
Thou  art  the  even-tempered  child 
Of  prairies,  on  whose  verdant  wild 
Eternities  have  smiled. 

O  Marmaton  !     O  Marmaton  ! 
Be  patient,  for  thy  day  will  come, 
And  bring  the  bugle  and  the  drum. 

Thy  fame  shall  like  thy  ripples  run  ; 


THE  SUNSET  MARMATON.  41 

Thou  shalt  be  storied  yet. 
Within  this  great 
And  central  State, 
The  destiny  of  some  proud  day 

Upon  thy  banks  is  set. 
Artillery  will  sweep  away 

The  orchard  and  the  prairie  home, 
And  while  the  wheat  stacks  redly  burn, 
Armies  of  infantry  will  charge 
The  lines  of  works  along  thy  marge, 
While  cavalry  brigades  will  churn 

Thy  frightened  waters  into  foam. 
The  spell  of  centuries  will  break, 
And  thou  shalt  suddenly  awake, 
And  have  a  story  that  will  make 
A  nation's  pulses  thrill. 
And  when  again  thy  banks  are  still, 
No  new  admirer  of  the  time 
Can  say  of  thee  in  feeble  rhyme  : 
"  O  Marmaton  !    O  Marmaton  ! 
Thou  hast  no  story  and  no  song  ; 
Thou  hast  no  history  of  wrong ; 
Unto  the  vast 
And  empty  past 

In  which  thy  former  life  was  cast, 
Thou  dost  not  yet  belong." 


42  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

O  Marmaton  !     O  Marmaton ! 
The  centuries  will  pass  along, 

And  slowly,  singly,  one  by  one, 
Repeat  thy  story  and  thy  song. 
Thy  time  abide, 

O  Marmaton  ; 
While  side  by  side, 

O  Marmaton, 

The  shadows  o'er  thy  prairies  glide, 
Thy  prairies  wide, 

O  Marmaton. 

For  nations  come  and  nations  go, 
Whither  and  whence  we  do  not  know. 

Great  days  in  stormy  years  though  hid, 

Great  years,  dark  centuries  amid, 
Will  ever  and  anon  emerge, 
Like  life-boats  drifting  through  a  surge 
Where  billows  sweep  and  mad  winds  urge 
Of  future  heed, 

O  Marmaton, 
Thou  hast  no  need, 

O  Marmaton. 
With  quiet  force, 
In  quiet  course, 

Still  murmur  on,  O  Marmaton. 


SUPERSTITION.  43 


SUPERSTITION. 

Amid  the  verdure,  on  the  prairies  wide, 
There  stretches  o'er  the  undulating  floor, 
As  on  the  edges  of  an  ocean-shore, 

From  east  to  west,  half  buried,  side  by  side, 

A  chain  of  boulders,  that  the  icy  tide 
Of  glacial  epoch  centuries  before 
From  arctic  hills  superfluously  bore, 

And  left  in  southern  summers  to  abide. 

So  on  the  landscape  of  our  times  is  seen 
The  rough  debris  of  error's  old  moraines. 
The  superstitions  of  a  thousand  creeds, 
Half  buried,  peer  above  the  waving  green  ; 
But  kindly  time  will  cover  their  remains 
Beneath  a  sod  of  noble  thoughts  and  deeds. 


44  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


WHIST. 


Hour  after  hour  the  cards  were  fairly  shuffled 
And  fairly  dealt,  but  still  I  got  no  hand. 

The  morning  came ;  and  with  a  mind  unruffled 
I  only  said,  "  I  do  not  understand." 

Life  is  a  game  of  whist.     From  unseen  sources 
The  cards  are  shuffled,  and  the  hands  are  dealt. 

Blind  are  our  efforts  to  control  the  forces 

That,  though  unseen,  are  no  less  strongly  felt. 

I  do  not  like  the  way  the  cards  are  shuffled  ; 

But  still  I  like  the  game  and  want  to  play. 
And  through  the  long,  long  night  will  I,  unruffled, 

Play  what  I  get  until  the  break  of  day. 


GRIZZLY-GRU.  45 


GRIZZLY-GRU. 

0  thoughts  of  the  past  and  present, 
O  whither,  and  whence,  and  where, 

Demanded  my  soul,  as  I  scaled  the  height 
Of  the  pine-clad  peak  in  the  somber  night, 
In  the  terebinthine  air. 

While  pondering  on  the  frailty 

Of  sadness  and  hope  and  mirth, 
The  ascending  sun  with  derisive  scoff 
Hurled  its  golden  lances  and  smote  me  off 

From  the  bulge  of  the  restless  earth. 

Through  the  yellowish  dawn  of  velvet, 
Where  stars  were  so  thickly  strewn, 

That  quietly  chuckled  as  I  passed  through, 

1  fell  in  the  gardens  of  Grizzly-Gru, 
On  the  mad,  mysterious  moon. 

I  fell  on  the  turquoise  ether, 

Low  down  in  the  wondrous  west, 
And  thence  to  the  moon  in  whose  yielding  blue 
Were  hidden  the  gardens  of  Grizzly-Gru, 

In  the  Monarchy  of  Unrest. 


46  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  there  were  the  fairy  gardens, 

Where  beautiful  cherubs  grew 

In  daintiest  way  and  on  separate  stalks, 
In  the  listed  rows  by  the  jasper  walks, 

Near  the  palace  of  Grizzly-Gru. 

While  strolling  around  the  garden 

I  noticed  the  rows  were  full 
Of  every  conceivable  size  and  type, 
Some  that  were  buds,  and  some  that  were  ripe, 

And  some  that  were  ready  to  pull. 

In  gauzy  and  white  corolla, 

Was  one  that  had  eyes  of  blue, 
A  little  excuse  of  a  baby  nose, 
Little  pink  ears,  and  ten  little  toes, 

And  a  mouth  that  kept  saying  ah-goo. 

Ah-gooing  as  I  came  near  her, 

She  raised  up  her  arms  in  glee — 

Her  little  fat  arms — and  she  seemed  to  say, 
"  I'm  ready  to  go  with  you  right  away ; 

Don't  hunt  any  more,  take  me." 

I  picked  her  off  quick  and  kissed  her, 
And,  hugging  her  to  my  breast, 


GRIZZLY-GRU.  47 

I  heard  a  loud  yelling  that  pierced  me  through, 
'Twas  His  Terrible  Eminence,  Grizzly-Gru, 
Of  the  Monarchy  of  Unrest. 

He  had  on  a  blood-red  turban, 

A  picturesque  lot  of  clothes, 
With  big  moustaches  both  fierce  and  black, 
And  a  ghastly  saber  to  cut  and  hack, 

And  shoes  that  turned  up  at  the  toes. 

Out  of  the  gate  of  the  garden 

The  cherub  and  I  took  flight, 

And  closely  behind  me  the  saber  flew, 
And  back  of  the  saber  came  Grizzly-Gru, 

And  he  chased  me  all  day  till  night. 

I  ran  down  the  lunar  crescent, 

And  out  on  the  silver  horn  ; 

I  kissed  the  baby  and  held  her  tight, 
And  jumped  down  into  the  starry  night, 

And — I  lit  on  the  earth  at  morn. 

He  fitfully  threw  his  saber, 

It  missed  and  went  round  the  sun  ; 
He  followed  no  further,  he  was  not  rash, 
But  the  baby  held  on  to  my  coarse  moustache, 

And  fell  and  enjoyed  the  fun. 


48  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

In  saving  that  blue-eyed  baby 
From  the  gardens  of  Grizzly-Gru, 
I  suffered  a  terrible  shock  and  fright  -, 
But  the  doctor  believes  it  will  be  all  right, 
And  he  thinks  he  can  pull  me  through. 


TARPEIA.  49 


TARPEIA. 


Upon  the  massive  walls 

The  cloudless  moonlight  falls ; 
It  silver-plates  the  portico  and  fane  ; 

The  tawny  Tiber  drifts 

By  castellated  cliffs, 
And  bears  its  sluggish  wavelets  to  the  main. 

Anon  the  silver  fades 

From  walls  and  colonades ; 
Clouds  scarred  with  fire  hurl  down  the  vengeful  rain 

Impelled  by  gusty  waifs, 

The  tawny  Tiber  chafes, 
And  hurls  its  turbid  billows  to  the  main. 

The  Niobe  of  Night 

Has  left  her  azure  height  ; 
No  more  she  stares  disconsolately  down  ; 

No  more  the  angles  sharp 

Of  pinnacle  and  scarp, 
From  filmy  skies  imperiously  frown. 


50  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Amid  the  black  and  damp, 

The  Sabines  leave  their  camp, 
Before  the  gate  their  solid  columns  go  ; 

And  there  Tarpeia  stands, 

With  her  unaided  hands 
To  open  wide  the  portals  to  the  foe. 

Then  spake  the  king  to  her: 

"  What  gift  shall  I  confer, 
O  maid  of  Rome,  so  daring  and  so  fair?  " 

The  Roman  maiden  spake  : 

"  Those  jewels  I  will  take, 
That  on  their  arms  your  Sabine  soldiers  wear." 

The  eager  columns  march 

Beneath  the  rugged  arch  ; 
They  crush  the  maid  with  bracelets  and  with  shields. 

A  pledge  is  kept,  and  broke ; 

And  in  the  din  and  smoke, 
The  lurid  fire  the  doom  of  war  reveals. 

Then  comes  the  gloomy  gray, 

The  harbinger  of  day — 
Hurled  from  the  rock  Tarpeia  finds  a  grave  ; 

And  flaring  like  a  flume, 

The  Tiber  through  the  gloom 
Transfers  the  tomb  out  to  the  cryptic  wave. 


TARPEIA.  61 

********* 

Hope's  signal  torches  shine 

Upon  life's  Esqualine, 
Its  Quirinal,  its  rocky  Palatine ; 

From  battlemented  walls, 

Life's  merry  warder  calls 
The  hourly  watches  of  the  night's  decline. 

O  Fate,  behind  a  mask 

You  promise  all  we  ask — 
You  promise  wealth  and  happiness  and  fame  ; 

And  then  you  keep,  yet  break, 

The  promises  you  make — 
You  take  the  substance  and  you  leave  the  name. 

Some  ask  of  you  a  crown, 

A  scepter,  or  renown  ; 
Some  claim  the  jewels  that  your  bright  arm  bears; 

But  when  you  give,  you  fling, 

With  every  given  thing, 
The  weight  of  troubles  and  the  crush  of  cares. 

Perhaps  'twere  best  to  wait 

Behind  the  rugged  gate, 
To  ask  no  favor  from  your  ready  hand  ; 

To  fight,  and  ask  no  charm 

From  your  bejeweled  arm, 
And  not  be  crushed  with  favors  we  demand. 


52  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


KARMYL. 

On  the  eastern  shore  of  Kansas, 
Half  a  million  years  or  so 

Back  among  the  jeweled  eons, 
Did  I  love  the  Princess  Karmyl, 
Long  ago. 

Bluer  were  her  eyes  than  autumn 
Mists  of  morning,  and  her  hair 

Was  as  wavy  and  as  yellow 
As  the  sunbeams  of  the  languid 
August  air. 

'Mid  the  parks  around  the  palace, 
And  the  tree-ferns  did  we  stray. 

Laughing  at  the  tame  dinornis 
And  the  petted  pterodactyls' 
Awkward  play. 

'Neath  the  palm  trees  by  the  ocean 
Did  we  watch  the  summer  gales, 


KARM  YL.  53 

Watch  the  ships  from  far  Atlantis, 
And  the  Uxmal  galleys  with  their 
Linen  sails. 

By  the  inland  Kansas  ocean, 

Half  a  million  years  or  so 
Back  among  the  silver  cycles, 

Did  I  love  the  Princess  Karmyl 
Long  ago. 

But  the  blue-eyed  Princess  Karmyl 
Grieved  her  saddened  soul  away 

When  I  lost  my  life  in  battle, 

Fighting  for  her  father's  kingdom, 
With  Cathay. 

Years  have  fled — the  sea  grew  shallow 

When  the  Great  Atlantis  sank ; 
Then  a  change  of  the  equator 

Made  the  power  of  warlike  Uxmal 
Lose  its  rank. 

Now  the  undulating  prairie, 

With  a  wealth  of  verdant  loam, 
Shows  a  sea  of  billows  greener 

Than  when  galleys  from  Atlantis 
Plowed  the  foam. 


54  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

But  the  blue-eyed  little  Karmyl 
With  her  sunshine  is  not  there  ; 

And  I  fear  she  never  will  be, 
For  they  tell  me  she  is  living 
In  Altair. 


THE  AZTEC  CITY.  55 


THE  AZTEC  CITY. 

There  is  a  clouded  city,  that  doth  rest 

Beyond  the  crest 
Where  Cordilleras  mar  the  mystic  west. 

There  suns  unheeded  rise  and  re-arise ; 

And  in  the  skies 
The  harvest  moon  unnoticed  lives  and  dies. 

And  yet  this  clouded  city  hath  no  night — 

Volcanic  light 
Doth  give  eternal  noon-tide,  redly  bright. 

A  thousand  wells,  whence  cooling  waters  came, 

No  more  the  same, 
Now  send  aloft  a  thousand  jets  of  flame. 

This  clouded  city  is  enchanting  fair, 

For  rich  and  rare 
From  sculptured  frieze  the  gilded  griffins  stare. 


56  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

With  level  look — with  loving,  hopeful  face, 

Fixed  upon  space, 
Stand  caryatides  of  unknown  race, 

And  colonades  of  dark  green  serpentine, 

Of  strange  design, 
Carved  on  whose  shafts  queer  alphabets  combine. 

And  there  are  lofty  temples,  rich  and  great, 

And  at  the  gate, 
Carved  in  obsidian,  the  lions  wait. 

And  from  triumphant  arches,  looking  down 

Upon  the  town, 
In  porphyry,  sad,  unknown  statesmen  frown. 

And  there  are  palace  homes,  and  stately  walls, 

And  open  halls 
Where  fountains  are,  with  voiceless  waterfalls. 

The  ruddy  fire  incessantly  illumes 

Temples  and  tombs, 
And  in  its  blaze  the  stone-wrought  cactus  blooms. 

From  clouds  congealed  the  mercury  distills, 

And  forming  rills, 
Adown  the  streets  in  double  streamlet  trills. 


THE  AZTEC  CITY.  57 

As  rains  from  clouds,  that  summer  skies  eclipse, 

From  turret  tips 
And  spire  and  porch  the  mobile  metal  drips. 

No  one  that  visited  this  fiery  hive 

Ever  alive 
Came  out  but  me — I,  I  alone,  survive. 


58  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  GEESE  AND  THE  CRANES. 

It  is  sunrise.    In  the  morn 
Stands  a  field  of  ripened  corn  ; 
And  the  rich  autumnal  rays 
Of  those  sunny  Kansas  days 
Fill  that  field  of  ripened  corn 

With  an  opalescent  haze  ; 
And  the  flocks  of  geese  and  cranes 
Pick  the  fallen,  golden  grains. 

Ij  is  noon-time  ;  and  the  rays 

Of  the  Indian  summer  blaze ; 
And  the  field  of  ripened  corn, 
Much  more  shattered  than  at  morn, 

Seems  emerging  from  the  haze. 
Fewer  geese,  but  far  more  cranes, 
Pick  the  fallen,  golden  grains. 

It  is  evening ;  and  the  haze 

Of  the  short  autumnal  days, 
Like  a  mantle,  seems  to  rest 
On  the  dark  and  leaden  west. 


THE  GEESE  AND  THE  CRANES.  59 

Shattered  is  the  field  of  maize. 
Homeward  fly  the  geese ;  the  cranes 
Linger,  picking  golden  grains. 

It  is  midnight.    Rains  and  sleet 
On  the  blackened  landscape  beat ; 

And  there  nothing  now  remains 
Of  that  field  of  standing  corn. 

But  through  darkness,  sleet,  and  rains 

Comes  the  crying  of  the  cranes, 
As  they  search  through  fields  forlorn. 

Fighting  for  the  final  grains. 

Hours  the  grains,  and  life  the  field 
Which  its  ripened  crops  doth  yield  ; 

And  our  habits,  good  and  bad, 
Represent  the  geese  and  cranes 
Eating  up  the  golden  grains. 

Few  the  habits  that  are  best, 

And  they  early  go  to  rest ; 
But  through  sleet  and  midnight  rains 
Still  are  heard  the  cries  of  cranes 
Fighting  for  the  final  grains. 


60  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


AN  ITALIAN  SONNET. 

A  politician  was  Terhune  McCarty. 

He  found  that  votes  were  captured  with  molasses. 

He  frequented  saloons;  he  jingled  glasses; 
He  talked  about  "  our  great  and  glorious  party." 

In  language  insincere,  and  yet  most  hearty, 
He  always  eulogized  the  toiling  masses  ; 
Deplored  the  brutal  wealth  of  upper  classes. 

At  last,  a  councilman  became  McCarty. 

He  then  sang  "  Hail  Columbia,"  "Yankee  Doodle;" 
And  wore  a  watch  chain  bulky  as  a  cable  ; 

But  all  at  once  he  dropped  his  watermelon. 
They  caught  him  lugging  off  a  bag  of  boodle. 
They  stripped  him  quickly  of  his  party  label, 
And  jailed  him  as  a  self-convicted  felon. 


FAILURE.  61 


FAILURE. 

An  old  man  sat  upon  the  porch  at  evening  ; 
Down  in  the  west  the  clouds  were  banked  and  sullen. 
No  one  was  near  him,  and  in  withered  tone 
The  old  man  spoke  unto  himself  alone  : 

"  My  life  has  been  a  vanity  and  failure  ; 
My  wife,  my  health,  my  fortune  taken  from  me ; 
While  strange  disaster,  striking  far  and  wide, 
Has  scattered  all  my  children  from  my  side. 

"  And  here  I  am  alone,  without  a  dollar, 

The  hopes  of  youth  all  shattered  and  abandoned  ; 

My  life  a  failure — failure  from  the  first, 

A  vanity,  a  failure,  of  the  worst." 

Adown  the  west  he  looked  with  gloomy  sorrow  ; 
And  as  he  spoke  the  sky  grew  more  tenebral. 
From  time  to  time  the  cloud  banks  lit  with  flame, 
And  fitful  zephyrs  came,  and  died,  and  came. 

Upon  his  staff  his  hands  were  clasped  and  trembling, 
Upon  his  hands  his  brow  in  sorrow  rested  ; 


62  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  the  sad  west  seemed  constantly  to  take 
A  tinge  more  dark  and  dismally  opaque. 

Then  all  at  once  there  seemed  to  stand  beside  him 
A  being  draped  as  if  with  phosphorescence — 
A  form  of  beauty,  that  might  aptly  seem 
To  be  the  emanation  of  a  dream. 

So  beautiful  and  good  she  seemed,  a  mortal 
Need  but  behold  her  once  to  idolize  her ; 
While  character  and  sympathy  and  grace 
Shone  like  an  inspiration  in  her  face. 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  the  old  man's  shoulder, 
And  spoke  in  words  of  magic  tone  and  feeling : 
"  Why  thus,  my  father,  do  you  sadly  brood 
O'er  withered  hopes  with  which  all  life  is  strewed? 

"  Your  life,  though  toilsome,  has  not  been  a  failure. 

Old  age  may  find  you  left  without  a  dollar ; 

But  earth  has  blossomed  where  your   hands    have 

wrought, 
The  world  grown  wiser  where  your  lips  have  taught. 

"  Those  coming  first  build  up  for  those  who  follow, 
Shaping  the  future  though  they  know  not  of  it ; 
As  on  the  slow-wrought  ledges  coralline 
The  continents  of  future  times  begin. 


FAIL  URE.  63 

"  Though  in  old  age  without  a  friend  or  dollar, 
He  who  has  spent  his  days  in  honest  labor 
Can  say  with  certainty,  when  they  are  done, 
His  life  has  been  a  most  successful  one. 

"  There  is  no  place,  except  on  earth,  for  dollars — 
Your  scattered  children  will  be  reunited." 
And  then  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  old  man's  cheek, 
And  said,  "My  father;"  but  he  did  not  speak. 

The  vision  vanished,  but  the  old  man  moved  not, 
The  grief  was  over,  and  the  failure  ended  ; 
While  on  the  lifeless  face,  serene  and  fixed, 
There  seemed  a  smile  as  if  of  peace  unmixed. 

Down  in  the  west  the  banks  of  cloud  tenebral 
Lifted  and  scattered  in  the  viewless  ether ; 
And  in  their  stead,  with  mild  and  gentle  light, 
Shone  forth  again  the  jewels  of  the  night. 


64  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


QUESTION. 

To  his  courtier  spake  the  Czar, 
Looking  o'er  the  fields  afar : 
"  Count  the  plowmen  that  you  see, 
And  their  number  tell  to  me." 

From  the  palace  porch  afar 
Looked  and  answered  he  the  Czar : 
"In  the  distance  there  are  two — 
Two  are  all  there  are  in  view." 

"  Rightly  spoken,"  said  the  Czar, 
"  Two  the  men  that  plowing  are ; 
Tell  their  number,  if  you  can, 
If  we  call  that  plow  a  man." 

Quickly  answered  he  the  Czar  : 
"  Two  the  men  now  plowing  are  ; 
Call  that  plow  a  man,  and  then 
Three  the  number  of  the  men." 

Flashed  with  anger  then  the  Czar, 
And  his  eye  gleamed  like  a  star, 


QUESTION.  65 

As  he  looked  the  courtier  through  : 
"  Wrong,  sir,  wrong !  still,  only  two." 

"  Who  shall  stand  beside  a  Czar, 
With  an  empire  spreading  far? 
Who  shall  give  advice  to  kings, 
Knowing  not  that  things  are  things  ? 

"  By  the  edict  of  the  Czar, 

To  the  Caucasus  afar, 

Go !  until  thou  knowest  when 

Things  are  things,  and  men  are  men." 


66  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  DJKLXPRWBZ. 

Before  a  Turkish  town 

The  Russians  came, 
And  with  huge  cannon 

Did  bombard  the  same. 

They  got  up  close 

And  rained  fat  bombshells  down, 
And  blew  out  every 

Vowel  in  the  town. 

And  then  the  Turks, 

Becoming  somewhat  sad, 

Surrendered  every 
Consonant  they  had. 


GLOR  Y.  67 


GLORY. 

A  rocket  scaled  the  terraces  of  night, 
And  yet 
Reached  not  the  parapet. 

I  told  a  noble-hearted  friend  of  mine 
That  he, 
Though  great,  far  greater  yet  would  be. 

He  rose  as  did  Acestes'  arrow  rise, 
He  burned, 
And  burning,  into  ashes  turned. 

He  rose,  and  rising  blazed,  and  burned  away, 
And  yet 
He  failed  to  reach  the  parapet. 


RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


FRAUDS. 

Ambitious,  shrewd, 
Unprincipled,  and  ever  fond  of  show, 
Hanno  of  Carthage,  centuries  ago, 

Determined  to  be  great ;  he  bought  a  brood 
Of  fledgling  parrots,  taught  them  at  his  nod 
To  scream  in  chorus  :  "  Hanno  is  a  god  ! " 

When  they  were  taught, 
He  had  a  hireling  place  them  on  the  street, 
As  if  for  sale  to  those  he  chanced  to  meet; 

But  still  by  no  one  could  the  birds  be  bought. 
Then  Hanno  passed  in  pomp,  and  gave  a  nod, 
Out  shrieked  the  parrots :  "  Hanno  is  a  god  !  " 

Cunningly  done. 

That  night  said  Hanno,  as  he  doffed  his  clothes 
Of  silk  embroidery,  to  seek  repose  : 

"  Distinguished  immortality  is  won  ; 
For  heardst  thou  not  that  superstitious  squad 
Catch  up  the  sentence,  '  Hanno  is  a  god  '  ? 


FRA  UDS. 

A  galley  slave, 

Condemned,  went  Hanno  o'er  the  cloudy  seas 
That  hid  the  fabled  Cassiterides  ; 

Wealthy  in  grief,  no  home  except  the  wave, 
Lashed  to  the  oar,  betimes  urged  by  the  rod, 
Not  very  much  a  man,  much  less  a  god. 

It  could  not  win. 

It  never  did.     Although  the  world  applauds, 
It  turns  at  last  and  punishes  its  frauds. 

Although  it  may  not  hasten  to  begin  ; 
True  to  itself,  when  once  it  has  begun, 
It  drives  them  to  the  galleys  one  by  one. 


70  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  PROTEST. 

[  Written  while  the  Government  was  removing 
buried  soldiers  from  the  battle-fields  of  secession  and 
organizing  national  cemeteries^ 

Let  them  rest,  let  them  rest  where  they  fell. 
Every  battle-field  is  sacred  ; 
If  you  let  them  stay  to  guard  it, 
They  will  shroud  those  spots  with  valor 

Like  a  spell. 

All  the  soil  will  seem  implanted 
With  the  germ  of  vital  freedom. 
Where  they  spent  their  lives  so  grandly 

Let  them  dwell. 
Do  not  rank  them  up  in  fields, 
Under  pallid  marble  shields; 
Let  them  rest  and  be  cherished 

Where  they  fell. 

Let  them  rest,  let  them  rest  where  they  fell : 
On  the  prairie,  in  the  forest, 
"Neath  the  cypress  or  the  laurel, 
On  the  mountain,  by  the  bayou, 
In  the  dell. 


THE  PROTEST.  71 

Let  the  glories  of  the  battle 
Shroud  the  heroes  who  are  buried  ; 
Resting  where  they  fought  so  bravely, 

Long,  and  well. 
Do  not  rank  them  up  in  fields, 
Under  pallid  marble  shields ; 
Let  them  rest,  let  them  rest 

Where  they  fell. 


72  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


SHADOW. 

The  day  has  been  vague,  and  the  sky  has  been  bleak, 

Affairs  have  gone  backward  the  whole  day  long ; 
My  friends  as  I  meet  them  will  scarcely  speak, 
And  vainly  the  things  I  have  lost  I  seek. 

I  am  weary  and  sad — and  the  world  is  wrong. 

The  morrow  has  come,  and  the  sky  has  grown  clear, 

The  world  appears  righted,  and  rings  with  song; 
My  friends  as  I  meet  them  have  words  of  cheer, 
The  things  that  I  thought  I  had  lost  reappear, 
And  the  work  pushes  forward  the  whole  day  long. 

As  the  strings  of  a  harp,  standing  side  by  side, 

Are  the  days  of  sadness  and  days  of  song ; 
The  sunshine  and  shadow  are  ever  allied, 
But  the  shadows  will  fade,  and  the  sunshine  bide, 
Though  to-day  may  be  dim,  and  the  world  go  wrong. 


TYPE.  73 


TYPE. 


All  night  the  sky  was  draped  in  darkness  thick  ; 
Out  from  the  clouds  imprisoned  lightnings  swept; 

Into  the  printer's  stick, 

With  energetic  click, 
The  ranks  of  type  into  battalions  crept, 
Which  formed  brigades  while  dreaming  labor  slept; 
And  ere  dawn's  crimson  pennons  were  unfurled, 
The  night-formed  columns  charged  the  waking  world. 


74  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  TOBACCO  STEMMERS. 

Stemming  tobacco  in  a  reeking  basement, 
At  work,  with  little  left  of  hopes  or  joys, 
Were  silent  groups  of  many  shaded  faces, 
Their  blood  the  sewage  of  barbaric  races, 
Women  and  girls,  old  men  and  sober  boys. 

In  the  vast  basement  the  reluctant  ceilings 

Were  propped  with  pillars  weary  with  delay  ; 
The  mid-day  light  shrank  from  the  poisoned  vapors, 
While  feeble  jets  lit,  as  with  ghostly  tapers, 
The  woeful  scenes  where  life  was  worked  away. 

Looking  around,  my  angry  heart  protested. 

"  How,"  I  inquired,  "are  such  conditions  made? 
What  human  laws  betray  such  soulless  phases  ? 
Are  these  the  victims  of  crime's  stern  ukases?  " 

The  foreman  said  :  "  No  ;  of  the  laws  of  trade." 

Then  of  myself  my  soul  did  ask  the  question: 
Would  I  work  here  and  earn  my  daily  bread  ? 

Would  I  toil  here  to  make  an  "  honest  living  "  ; 

And,  at  the  end  of  lock-stepped  hours,  forgiving, 
Go  sleepfully  and  dreamlessly  to  bed  ? 


THE   TOBACCO  STEMMERS.  75 

I'm  too  discordant.     I  would  hurl  this  handful 

Of  clay  I've  borrowed  at  the  Great  White  Throne. 
Shrieking  at  fate  I'd  die,  like  Caesar,  standing, 
With  torch  and  steel  I'd  take  my  chances,  landing, 
Within  the  vortex  of  the  great  unknown. 

Noting  my  thoughts,  the  foreman  gave  a  signal ; 

A  hum — and  then  a  hush  on  every  tongue  ! 
But  suddenly  a  low  and  rhythmic  murmur 
Broke  forth  into  a  cadence  strong  and  firmer, 

And  in  it  joined  the  aged  and  the  young. 

The  rats  peered  from  their  holes.    The  oaken  pillars, 

Smoky  and  stained,  began  to  vibrate  white ; 
And  still  the  song  rose  up  in  wild  derision 
Of  present  things,  and  claimed  with  strange  decision, 
There  is  a  land  of  restful  peace  and  right. 

The  song  transformed  the  walls  to  pallid  onyx, 
The  rafters  changed  to  maze  of  antique  oak, 
The  sodden  floor  grew  firm  and  tesselated, 
And  in  the  stead  of  vapor,  poison-freighted, 
An  incense  rose  with  faint  and  filmy  smoke. 

My  soul  retains  that  song's  redundant  sorrow  ; 
There  may  be  justice  somewhere,  who  can  tell? 


76  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 

Perhaps  the  captor  he,  who  wears  the  fetter, 
Perhaps  the  torch  and  steel  were  not  the  better, 
To  be  the  wronged,  perhaps,  were  just  as  well. 

Perhaps  these  lives  of  ours,  when  sere  and  withered, 

May  be  picked  over  in  some  juster  land, 
Torn  from  the  earthly  stem  and  there  inspected, — 
By  the  aroma  of  good  deeds  selected, — 
Perhaps  it's  so.     We  do  not  understand. 

Work  on,  sing  on,  O  toilers.     May  the  future 
Restore  the  world  to  him  who  works  and  sings. 

May  justice  come  inflexibly  decreeing 

The  ample  right  of  every  human  being 
To  happiness  and  hope  in  present  things. 


CHAOS.  77 


CHAOS. 

I've  seen  an  ice-clad  river  leave  its  banks, 
And  tear  through  hills  of  time-enduring  rock  ; 

Squadrons  I've  seen,  that  charging  ranks  on  ranks, 
Made  the  firm  planet  tremble  with  their  shock. 

I've  seen  red  navies  with  their  ribs  of  oak 
Lashed  into  splinters  by  the  frantic  main ; 

I've  seen  proud  cities  wander  off  in  smoke ; 
I've  seen  autumnal  ruin  sweep  the  plain. 

I've  stood  at  midnight  on  the  rocky  height 
That  bars  the  purple  meadows  of  the  west ; 

I've  seen  the  silent  empress  of  the  night 
Sail  slowly  onward  splendoring  crest  on  crest. 

But  never  have  I  seen,  in  earth  or  air, 

A  method  or  a  principle.     I  scan 
An  unplanned  chaos,  shaping  here  and  there 

The  greatness  and  the  littleness  of  man. 


78  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

A  KANSAS  IDYL. 

[A  true  incident^ 

Into  a  frontier  town  of  Kansas  came 

An  aborigine,  with  moccasins  and  war  paint ; 

And  he  bore  the  look — wan  look — of  the 

Untutored  savage.    And  there  also  came 

A  proud  Caucasian,  in  boots  and  spurs  and  pistols 

Clad — a  rover,  full  of  strange  oaths,  and 

Bearded  like  his  pard.     He  had  a  classic 

Brow.     In  youth,  at  Yale,  a  stroke-oar  he 

Had  been,  and  deemed  a  youth  of  power  and  culture 

Rare.     They,  each  to  each  a  stranger, 

Sought  this  Kansas  village  in  pursuit 

Of  ardent  spirits.     Prohibition  held  full  sway, 

And  the  unrelenting  man  of  drugs  and 

Merchandise  refused  to  sell  the  article 

Demanded.     Away  in  anger  and  disgust 

The  proud  Caucasian  strode,  and  as 

His  fervid  language  percolated  through 

The  filmy  ether,  spectators  at  a  distance 

Thought  that  an  aurora  borealis  was 

On  exhibition.     Back  to  his  ranch  returning, 


A  KANSAS  IDYL.  79 

He  to  bed  went  sober.    But  the  aborigine 

With  more  stoicism  met  refusal  from 

The  man  of  drugs,  and  purchasing  of  hair  oil 

A  quart  bottle,  to  his  wigwam  went. 

Into  that  oil  that  aborigine  some  water  poured, 

And  by  a  process  of  disintegration  the 

Alcohol,  with  which  the  oil  was  cut, 

United  with  the  water,  and  the  oil, 

Floating  above,  was  gently  skimmed  away. 

And  then  the  noble  aborigine  proceeded 

To  become  inebriated,  and  well  did  he 

Succeed,  and  went  to  bed  in  a  condition 

That  the  rover  would  have  envied. 

'Tis  ever  thus  with  the  untutored  savage, 
Who  yearning  after  nature's  means  and  measures, 

With  pure  and  child-like  instinct  seeks  to  ravage 
The  dim  arcana  of  its  mystic  pleasures, 
And  wrest  from  nature's  vault  its  cryptic  treasures. 

While  by  his  side,  clogged  with  redundant  learning, 

The  proud  Caucasian  swears,  and  gets  left,  yearning. 


80  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


O'er  sunny  Kansas 

Some  commercial  Cadmus, 

In  days  unknown, 

The  teeth  of  golden  dragons  must 

have  sown ; 
For  when  the  prairies 
Feel  the  breath  of  summer, 

The  trowels  ring, 

And  from  the  soil  the  burnished 
cities  spring. 


THE  BIRD  SONG.  81 


THE  BIRD  SONG. 


In  the  night  air  I  heard  the  woodland  ringing, 
I  heard  it  ring  with  wild  and  thrilling  song ; 

Hidden  the  bird  whose  strange  inspiring  singing 
Seems  yet  to  float  in  liquid  waves  along, — 

Seems  yet  to  float  with  many  a  quirk  and  quaver, 
With  quirks  and  quavers  and  exultant  notes, 

As  through  the  air,  with  sympathetic  waver, 

Down  through  the  songs  the  falling  starlight  floats. 

Speaking,  I  said  :  "  O  bird  with  songs  sonorous, 
O  bird  with  songs  of  such  sonorous  glee, 

Sing  me  a  song  of  joy,  and  in  the  chorus, 
In  the  same  chorus  I  will  join  with  thee. 

The  songs  that  others  sing  seem  but  to  sadden, 
They  seem  to  sadden,  those  that  I  have  heard  ; 

Sing  me  a  song  whose  gleesome  notes  will  gladden — 
Sing  me  a  song  of  joy."    Then  sang  the  bird  : 


82  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

"  There  is  a  land  where  blossoming  exotic, 
The  amaranths  with  fadeless  colors  glow; 

Where  notes  of  birds  with  melodies  chaotic 
In  tangled  songs  forever  come  and  go. 

There  skies  serene  and  bland  will  bend  above  us, 
And  from  them  blessings  like  the  rain  will  fall ; 

There  those  fond  friends  that  we  have  loved  shall  love 

us, 
In  that  bright  land  those  friends  shall  love  us  all." 

The  singer  ceased,  the  rhapsody  sonorous 

No  more  through  starlit  woodland  floats  along ; 

And  as  it  ceased,  my  heart  refused  the  chorus, 
Refused  to  join  the  chorus  of  the  song. 

"Silence,"  I  said,  "  thou  bird  in  branches  hidden, 
Hope's  garlands  bright  grief's  fingers  slowly  weave  ; 

Grief  slowly  weaves  from  blooms  that  spring  unbid 
den — 
That  spring  perennial  when  the  heart  doth  grieve. 

Grief  present  now  proves  naught  of  the  eternal ; 

Grief  proves  no  future  with  good  blessings  rife — 
With  blessings  rife  and  futures  blandly  vernal : 

Facts  show  no  logic  in  a  future  life." 


THE  BIRD  SONG.  83 

And  then  I  said  :  "  False  is  thy  song  sonorous — 
Thy  song  that  floats  from  starlit  woodland  dim  ; 

When  we  are  gone  and  flowers  are  blooming  o'er  us — 
When  man  hath  gone,  there  endeth  all  with  him." 

Still  sang  the  bird  :  "There  skies  shall  bend  above  us, 
And  sprinkle  blessings  like  the  rains  that  fall ; 

And  those  we  loved — who  loved  us  not— shall  love  us, 
In  that  bright  land  shall  love  us  best  of  all." 

Then  came  a  song-burst  of  bewildering  splendor, 
That  rolled  in  waves  through  forest  corridors  ; 

Up  soared  the  bird,  fain  did  my  hopes  attend  her, 
And  hopes  and  songs  were  lost  amid  the  stars. 


Now  all  day  long,  upon  my  mind  intruding, 

There  comes  the  echo  of  that  last  night's  song  ; 

Grief  claims  the  wreck  on  which  my  mind  is  brooding, 
Hope  claims  the  facts  which  logic  claimed  so  long. 

Who  cares,  O  bird,  for  skies  that  bend  above  us? 

Who  cares  if  blessings  like  the  rain  shall  fall  ? 
If  only  those  who  loved  us  not  shall  love  us — 

In  that  bright  future  love  us  best  of  all. 


84  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Let  logic  marshal  ranks  of  facts  well  stated, 
They  only  fall  and  perish  in  their  tracks ; 

While,  looking  down  from  bastions  crenelated, 
Hope  smiles  derision  at  their  vain  attacks. 


QUIVER  A—  KANSAS.  85 


QUIVERA— KANSAS. 

1542-1892. 

In  that  half-forgotten  era, 
With  the  avarice  of  old, 
Seeking  cities  that  'twas  told 
Were  all  paved  with  solid  gold, 

In  the  kingdom  of  Quivera — 

Came  the  restless  Coronado 

To  the  open  Kansas  plain, 

With  his  knights  from  sunny  Spain; 

In  an  effort  that,  though  vain, 
Thrilled  with  boldness  and  bravado. 

League  by  league,  in  aimless  marching, 
Knowing  scarcely  where  or  why, 
Crossed  they  uplands  drear  and  dry, 
That  an  unprotected  sky 

Had  for  centuries  been  parching. 

But  their  expectations,  eager, 
Found,  instead  of  fruitful  lands, 


86  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Shallow  streams  and  shifting  sands, 
Where  the  buffalo  in  bands 
Roamed  o'er  deserts  dry  and  meager. 

Back  to  scenes  more  trite,  yet  tragic, 
Marched  the  knights  with  armor'd  steeds 
Not  for  them  the  quiet  deeds ; 
Not  for  them  to  sow  the  seeds 

From  which  empires  grow  like  magic. 

Never  land  so  hunger  stricken 

Could  a  Latin  race  re-mold ; 

They  could  conquer  heat  or  cold — 

Die  for  glory  or  for  gold — 
But  not  make  a  desert  quicken. 

Thus  Quivera  was  forsaken  ; 
And  the  world  forgot  the  place 
Through  the  lapse  of  time  and  space. 
Then  the  blue-eyed  Saxon  race 

Came  and  bade  the  desert  waken. 

And  it  bade  the  climate  vary; 
And  awaiting  no  reply 
From  the  elements  on  high, 
It  with  plows  besieged  the  sky — 

Vexed  the  heavens  with  the  prairie. 


Q  UI VERA —KA  NSA  S.  87 

Then  the  vitreous  sky  relented, 

And  the  unacquainted  rain 

Fell  upon  the  thirsty  plain, 

Whence  had  gone  the  knights  of  Spain, 
Disappointed,  discontented. 

Sturdy  are  the  Saxon  faces, 

As  they  move  along  in  line ; 

Bright  the  rolling-cutters  shine, 

Charging  up  the  State's  incline, 
As  an  army  storms  a  glacis. 

Into  loam  the  sand  is  melted, 
And  the  blue-grass  takes  the  loam, 
Round  about  the  prairie  home; 
And  the  locomotives  roam 

Over  landscapes  iron-belted. 

Cities  grow  where  stunted  birches 

Hugged  the  shallow  water  line  ; 

And  the  deepening  rivers  twine 

Past  the  factory  and  mine, 
Orchard  slopes  and  schools  and  churches. 

Deeper  grows  the  soil  and  truer, 
More  and  more  the  prairie  teems 


88  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

With  a  fruitage  as  of  dreams  ; 
Clearer,  deeper,  flow  the  streams, 
Blander  grows  the  sky,  and  bluer. 

We  have  made  the  State  of  Kansas, 
And  to-day  she  stands  complete — 
First  in  freedom,  first  in  wheat ; 
And  her  future  years  will  meet 

Ripened  hopes  and  richer  stanzas. 


THREE  STATES. 


THREE  STATES. 

Of  all  the  States  but  three  will  live  in  story : 
Old  Massachusetts  with  her  Plymouth  Rock, 
And  old  Virginia  with  her  noble  stock, 
And  Sunny  Kansas  with  her  woes  and  glory  ; 
These  three  will  live  in  song  and  oratory. 
While  all  the  others,  with  their  idle  claims, 
Will  only  be  remembered  as  mere  names. 


90  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


PRINTER'S  INK. 


Once  spoke  a  teacher  to  his  pupils,  "  Name 
The  metal  that  most  honors  men  with  fame." 

Then  shout  the  pupils  in  a  chorus,  "  Steel ; 
Before  the  saber  must  the  scepter  reel." 

"Wrong,"  spoke  the  teacher ;  "  try  again  and  name 
The  metal  that  most  honors  men  with  fame." 

Then  shout  the  pupils,  in  a  chorus,  "Gold ; 
For  it  can  buy,  and  honors  all  are  sold." 

"  Wrong,"  spoke  the  teacher ;  "  try  once  more  to  name 
The  metal  that  most  honors  men  with  fame." 

They  all  were  silent ;  then  spoke  one,  "  I  think 
That  mighty  metal  must  be  printer'  zinc." 

"  Right,"  spoke  the  teacher;  "  for  it  doth  not  fail 
To  make  the  nations  tremble  and  turn  pale." 

Then  shout  the  students,  in  a  chorus,  "Right — 

The  world  most  honors  that  which  hath  most  might." 


A  HOLY  WAI?.  91 


A  HOLY  WAR. 

[  The  Russo-  Turkish  campaign.} 

On  the  south  is  seen  an  empire — 
Mosque  and  minaret,  in  frenzy, 
To  the  ruler  of  the  "  faithful  " 

Send  their  influence  and  riches  ; 
And  the  holy  shrine  of  Mecca 
Pours  out  gold  and  absolution, 
While  it  speeds  the  Prophet's  children 

To  the  hospitals  and  ditches. 

On  the  north  a  Christian  empire 
In  the  name  of  Christ  is  acting. 
Mobs,  to  gain  a  benediction, 

Rally  round  a  bishop's  miter; 
And  they  use  the  church's  treasure, 
In  the  holy  name  of  Jesus, 
While  they  march  away  His  children 

To  the  vulture  and  the  niter. 

We  may  hope  to  see  an  era 
That  has  fewer  orphan  children — 
That  objects  to  shrieking  bugle 


92  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  the  sight  of  blazing  village  ; 
When  religion,  in  the  future, 
Shall  refuse  to  be  the  agent 
By  which  merciless  ambition 

Furthers  schemes  of  public  pillage. 


THE  CRUSADES.  93 


THE  CRUSADES. 

The  one  I  love  so  much  sits  by  my  side — 

Sits  by  my  side  and  listens  as  I  read ; 
Little  care  we  how  o'er  the  prairies  wide 
The  wintry,  zero-loving  tempests  glide, 
As  one  by  one  the  fire-lit  hours  recede. 
In  one  of  mine  I  hold  her  little  hands 
And  read  to  her  of  wars  in  distant  lands. 

I  read  to  her  of  times  long  passed  away, 

That  shine  like  jewels  in  the  wild  Crusades ; 
That  light  up  cities  crumbling  in  decay  ; 
That  out  of  darkness  bring  the  glare  of  day — 
A  glare  that  soon  to  greater  darkness  fades. 
I  read  to  her  of  princes  and  of  seers, 
Of  cruelties,  of  sufferings,  of  tears. 

I  read  to  her  of  hermits  and  of  kings, 

Of  Conrad,  Tancred,  Baldwin  and  Behmond ; 
I  read  to  her  of  bravery  that  springs 
From  wild  fanaticism,  whose  strong  wings 
Take,  in  their  sweep,  this  world  and  the  beyond. 
And,  as  I  read,  the  gusty  tempests  rage, 
As  if  in  sympathy  with  every  page. 


94  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


NETSIE. 

Happiness  or  heartache  ? 

Either  it  may  be, 
Blue-eyed  little  daughter 

Sitting  on  my  knee. 
Happiness  or  heartache, 

Either  it  may  be. 

Heartache  or  heartbreak 

If  it  sadly  be, 
Blue-eyed  little  daughter 

Sitting  on  my  knee, 
Though  I  may  be  buried 

I  will  grieve  with  thee. 

When  the  ache  is  ended 
We  can  go  and  see 

Our  old  home  in  Lyra, 
Where  the  rainbows  be, 

We  can  have  a  world  of  fun 
If  you  go  with  me. 


THE  COWCATCHER.  95 


THE  COWCATCHER. 
[Fable  No.  /.] 

Cast  your  eagle  eye  on  me — 

Leaders  there  must  always  be. 
I  have  such  a  massive  brain 
I  can  stand  the  tug  and  strain. 
See  the  engine  and  the  train 

As  they  meekly  follow  me. 

Leaders  there  must  always  be. 

It's  a  part  of  nature's  plan 

That  I  occupy  the  van, 

Born  to  rule,  and  born  to  lead, 
Born  to  flourish  and  precede. 
The  momentum  and  the  speed 

Of  the  engine  and  the  train 

Are  the  products  of  my  brain. 

MORAL. 

Those  the  world  have  pushed  ahead 
Thought  they  pulled  the  world  they  led. 


RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

They  were  either  fast  or  slow 
As  the  world  would  have  them  go ; 
But  they  never  seemed  to  know 
That  behind  them  came  the  force 
That  controlled  their  speed  and  course. 


THE  UNSOCIABLE  MILESTONES.  97 


THE  UNSOCIABLE  MILESTONES. 

{Fable  No.  2.  \ 

Strung  along  a  highway  stood 
Twenty  milestones,  made  of  wood, 

Undisturbed  by  storm  or  weather ; 
And  the  jokers  said  their  say, 
As  they  passed  along  the  way  : 
"  How  unsociable  are  they — 

Milestones  never  get  together." 

But  the  milestones  cared  not  whether 
It  were  worst  or  it  were  best — 
Undisturbed  by  jeer  or  jest, 

Two  were  never  seen  together. 
Duty  made  them  what  they  were, 
And  they  did  not  care  to  stir. 

MORAL. 

Men  there  are  whose  work,  whose  place 
Is,  like  milestones,  to  mark  out 
Both  the  distance  and  the  route ; 


98  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Both  the  destiny  and  way, 

In  the  progress  of  the  race. 

If  they  mingle  with  the  throng 
That  moves  thoughtlessly  along, 

Then  their  duty  they  betray. 

Lonesome,  very  lonesome,  they  ; 
But,  unmoved  by  hope  or  fear, 
Undisturbed  by  jest  or  jeer, 

There  their  duty — and  they  stay. 


ZEPHYR.  99 


ZEPHYR. 

[Fable  No.  3.} 

Once  a  Kansas  zephyr  strayed 
Where  a  brass-eyed  bird  pup  played , 
And  that  foolish  canine  bayed 

At  that  zephyr,  in  a  gay, 

Semi-idiotic  way. 
Then  that  zephyr,  in  about 
Half  a  jiffy,  took  that  pup, 
Tipped  him  over,  wrong  side  up ; 
Then  it  turned  him  wrong  side  out. 

And  it  calmly  journeyed  thence. 
With  a  barn  and  string  of  fence. 

MORAL. 

When  communities  turn  loose 
Social  forces  that  produce 

The  disorders  of  a  gale, 
Act  upon  the  well-known  law  : 


100  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Face  the  breeze,  but  close  your  jaw. 
It's  a  rule  that  will  not  fail : 

If  you  bay  it,  in  a  gay, 

Self-sufficient  sort  of  way, 

It  will  land  you,  without  doubt, 
Upside  down  and  wrong  side  out. 


PA  VO.  101 


PAVO. 

[Fable  No.  4] 

Said  a  peacock  unto  Juno, 

"  What's  the  reason  I  can't  sing  ? 
See  !  a  tail  I  can  unfold 
That  is  gorgeous  to  behold. 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  if  you  do  know, 
What's  the  reason  I  can't  sing, 
When  I'm  such  a  gorgeous  thing?' 

Juno,  answering  the  bird, 

Half  in  earnest,  half  in  fun, 
Said  injustice  would  be  done 

If  all  favors  were  conferred, 

Of  the  many,  upon  one. 

MORAL. 

Notwithstanding  what  we  wish, 
In  this  world  of  fact  and  fate, 
Some  must  fish  and  some  cut  bait- 
Just  a  few  of  us  can  fish. 


102  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

See  that  orphan  boy  at  work, 
Working  early,  working  late? 
He  is  learning  how  to  wait ; 

He  is  learning  not  to  shirk. 

Then  observe  the  rich  man's  son, 
Aping  style  and  making  bets — 
Smoking  idle  cigarettes, 

Talking  chaff  and  having  fun. 

Thirteen  years  is  not  too  late 
For  that  orphan  boy  to  wait ; 
Then  he'll  take  that  rich  man's  son, 
And  he'll  terminate  that  fun, 
And  he'll  set  him  cutting  bait. 

Then  the  rich  man's  son  will  wish. 
As  the  iron  years  go  by, 
And  the  tears  come  in  his  eye, 

That  he  had  a  chance  to  fish. 

But  his  wish  will  come  too  late ; 
For  the  orphan,  who  meanwhile 
Does  the  fishing,  smiles  a  smile, 

And  compels  him  to  cut  bait. 


THE  LIFE  INSURANCE  AGENT.  103 


THE  LIFE  INSURANCE  AGENT  AND 
THE  POST  AUGER. 

[Fable  No.  j.] 

Very  skillfully  and  fast, 

Boring  post-holes  in  the  soil, 
Worked  an  honest  son  of  toil ; 

An  insurance  agent  passed, 

Saying,  "  Such  a  '  perfect  bore ' 
I  have  never  seen  before." 

Then  he  sort  of  caught  his  breath, 

And  he  talked  that  man  to  death. 

MORAL. 

Strange  it  is,  somehow  or  other 
We  are  bound  to  make  a  fuss, 

When  we  notice  in  another 
Vices  that  belong  to  us. 


104  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


THE  VIOLET  STAR. 

"  I  have  always  lived,  and  I  always  must," 
The  sergeant  said  when  the  fever  came ; 

From  his  burning  brow  we  washed  the  dust, 
And  we  held  his  hand,  and  we  spoke  his  name. 

"  Millions  of  ages  have  come  and  gone," 
The  sergeant  said  as  we  held  his  hand  ; — 

"They  have  passed  like  the  mist  of  the  early  dawn 
Since  I  left  my  home  in  that  far  off  land." 

We  bade  him  hush,  but  he  gave  no  heed — 
"Millions  of  orbits  I  crossed  from  far, 

Drifted  as  drifts  the  cottonwood  seed  ; 
I  came,"  said  he,  "from  the  Violet  Star. 

"  Drifting  in  cycles  from  place  to  place — 
I'm  tired,"  said  he,  "and  I'm  going  home 

To  the  Violet  Star,  in  the  realms  of  space 
Where  I  loved  to  live,  and  I  will  not  roam. 

For  I've  always  lived,  and  I  always  must, 
And  the  soul  in  roaming  may  roam  too  far ; 


THE   VIOLET  STAR.  105 

I  have  reached  the  verge  that  I  dare  not  trust, 
And  I'm  going  back  to  the  Violet  Star." 

The  sergeant  was  still,  and  we  fanned  his  cheek  ; 

There  came  no  word  from  that  soul  so  tired  ; 
And  the  bugle  rang  from  the  distant  peak, 

As  the  morning  dawned  and  the  pickets  fired. 

The  sergeant  was  buried  as  soldiers  are ; 

And  we  thought  all  day,  as  we  marched  through 

the  dust : 
"  His  spirit  has  gone  to  the  Violet  Star — 

He  always  has  lived,  and  he  always  must." 


The  anchors  are  strong  that  hold  the  ships ; 

The  wire  is  strong  that  bridges  the  fall ; 
But  all  of  their  strength  must  suffer  eclipse 
Compared  with  the  words  of  a  woman's  lips, 

For  she  binds  the  man  that  has  made  them  all. 


106  RHYMES  OF  JRONQUILL. 


CHILDHOOD. 

It  passed  in  beauty, 

Like  the  waves  that  reach 
Their  jeweled  fingers 

Up  the  sanded  beach. 

It  passed  in  beauty, 

Like  the  flowers  that  spring 
Behind  the  footsteps 

Of  the  winter  king. 

It  passed  in  beauty, 
Like  the  clouds  on  high, 

That  drape  the  ceilings 
Of  the  summer  sky. 


EL  MORAN.  107 


EL  MORAN. 

I  crossed  the  orbit  of  Aldebaran, 
Thence  sixteen  orbits  to  Taurus  Rho, 

As  goes  a  boat  through  a  chain  of  whirlpools 
Into  the  slumbrous  lake  below. 

I  passed  through  a  hundred  constellations ; 

At  last  I  came  to  an  open  place, 
And  saw  in  the  distance  the  waves  of  ether 

Breaking  in  foam  on  the  cliffs  of  space. 

While  gazing  alone,  I  felt  a  question, 

But  nothing  either  saw  I  or  heard. 
A  soul  was  beside  me  ;  I  felt  a  presence, 

Seeing  no  form,  nor  hearing  a  word. 

"  Where  are  you  from,  and  where  are  you  going?' 
I  thought  as  quickly ;  "  who  can  you  be  ?  " 

Then  came  a  suspense,  as  of  hesitation — 
This  was  the  answer  it  thought  at  me  : 

"  I  lost  my  life  in  a  mine  explosion 
A  week  ago  in  the  planet  Mars ; 


108  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

I  thought  I  would  look  up  a  new  location. 
Are  you  acquainted  among  the  stars  ?  " 

I  answered  :  "  No  ;  I  was  killed  by  lightning 
Yesterday  morning  in  Hindostan  ; 

I  visit  the  old  ancestral  homestead 
Back  in  the  nebula  El  Moran." 

We  both  recounted  the  past  and  present ; 

We  watched  the  asteroids  weaving  lace, 
And  the  berylline  waves  of  viewless  ether 

Pounding  the  shoreless  cliffs  of  space. 


THE  OLD  PIONEER.  109 


THE  OLD  PIONEER. 

Where  are  they  gone  ?     Where  are  they — 

The  faces  of  my  childhood  ? 
I've  sought  them  by  the  mountains, 

By  the  rivers,  by  the  canyons ; 
I  have  called  upon  the  prairie, 

I  have  called  upon  the  wildwood  : 
"  Oh,  give  me  back !  Oh,  give  me  back 

The  faces  of  my  childhood — 
The  boys  and  girls, 

My  playmates,  my  companions  ! " 

The  days  of  early  childhood 

Have  a  strange,  attractive  glimmer, 
A  lustrous,  misty  fadelessness, 

Half  seen  and  yet  half  hidden, 
As  of  isles  in  distant  oceans. 

Where  the  shattered  moonbeams  shimmer. 
Concealing  half,  disclosing  half, 

With  rapturing,  fracturing  glimmer, 
The  realms  to  which 

Our  visits  are  forbidden. 


110  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

'Tis  vainly  that  I  call  upon 

The  mountains  or  the  canyons ; 
And  vainly  from  the  forest, 

From  the  river  or  the  wildwood, 
Do  I  ask  the  restoration 

Of  my  playmates,  my  companions. 
No  voice  returns  from  mountain  side, 

From  forest  or  from  canyons  ; 
They've  gone  from  me  forever, 

The  faces  of  my  childhood. 


JOHN  BRO  WN.  Ill 


JOHN  BROWN. 

States  are  not  great 
Except  as  men  may  make  them ; 
Men  are  not  great  except  they  do  and  dare. 

But  States,  like  men, 
Have  destinies  that  take  them — 
That  bear  them  on,  not  knowing  why  or  where. 

The  WHY  repels 
The  philosophic  searcher — 
The  WHY  and  WHERE  all  questionings  defy, 

Until  we  find, 

Far  back  in  youthful  nurture, 
Prophetic  facts  that  constitute  the  WHY. 

All  merit  comes 
From  braving  the  unequal ; 
All  glory  comes  from  daring  to  begin. 

Fame  loves  the  State 
That,  reckless  of  the  sequel, 
Fights  long  and  well,  whether  it  lose  or  win. 


112  RHYMES  OF  IRONQ UILL. 

Than  in  our  State 
No  illustration  apter 
Is  seen  or  found  of  faith  and  hope  and  will. 

Take  up  her  story  : 
Every  leaf  and  chapter 
Contains  a  record  that  conveys  a  thrill. 

And  there  is  one 

Whose  faith,  whose  fight,  whose  failing, 
Fame  shall  placard  upon  the  walls  of  time. 

He  dared  begin — 
Despite  the  unavailing, 
He  dared  begin,  when  failure  was  a  crime. 

When  over  Africa 
Some  future  cycle 
Shall  sweep  the  lake-gemmed  uplands  with  its  surge; 

When,  as  with  trumpet 
Of  Archangel  Michael, 
Culture  shall  bid  a  colored  race  emerge ; 

When  busy  cities 
There,  in  constellations, 
Shall  gleam  with  spires  and  palaces  and  domes, 

With  marts  wherein 
Are  heard  the  noise  of  nations; 
With  summer  groves  surrounding  stately  homes — 


JOHN  BRO  WN.  113 

There,  future  orators 
To  cultured  freemen 
Shall  tell  of  valor,  and  recount  with  praise 

Stories  of  Kansas, 
And  of  Lacedaemon — 
Cradles  of  freedom,  then  of  ancient  days. 

From  boulevards 
O'erlooking  both  Nyanzas, 
The  statured  bronze  shall  glitter  in  the  sun, 
With  rugged  lettering : 

"JOHN  BROWN  OF  KANSAS: 
HE  DARED  BEGIN  | 

HE  LOST, 
BUT,  LOSING,  WON." 


114  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


LIFE'S  MOONRISE. 

No  sunrise, — no  noon, — no  sunset ; 

On  the  prairie,  like  a  pall, 
All  day  hangs  the  storm,  and  from  it 

Unhappiness  seems  to  fall. 

At  evening  the  sky  grows  cloudless, 

And  the  moon  shines  round  and  clear; 

While  pure  as  the  smiles  of  angels 
The  glittering  stars  appear. 

The  red  deer  and  the  primrose 
And  the  prairie-larks  are  gay, 

Till  night,  with  its  moonlit  beauty, 

Is  merged  in  the  broad,  bright  day. 


Some  lives  have  a  cloudy  sunrise, 

With  a  noon-tide  clear  and  bright ; 

And  some  have  a  day  of  sunshine, 
With  rainy  and  cheerless  night. 


LIFE'S  MOON  RISE.  115 

My  life  had  been  sad  and  rainy 

Through  its  long  and  somber  day; 

At  last  came  the  placid  moonrise 
And  scattered  the  clouds  away. 

I'm  now  in  life's  moonrise  living ; 

And  although  the  sun  has  set, 
There  come  to  me  no  suggestions 

Of  sorrow  or  vain  regret. 

I'm  seeing  new  worlds  and  planets 

In  the  open  evening  sky; 
My  soul  feels  a  wild,  new  daring 

As  whisper  the  night  winds  by. 

I'm  heeding  no  more  the  future, 

Nor  the  past  that  flew  away ; 
But  hoping  the  moonlit  present 

May  merge  in  the  broad,  bright  day. 


116  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


THE  PYTHIAN. 

I  am  the  sibyl  of  the  right  divine, 

Who  spoke  the  sayings  of  the  Delphic  shrine  ; 
In  after  years  this  saying  you'll  recall  : 
"  Marry  the  man  who  loves  thee  most  of  all ; 

And  who  he  is  thou  needest  not  to  guess, 

Who  chatters  more  is  he  who  loves  thee  less. 


VICTOR.  117 


VICTOR. 

He  was  a  hero,  fighting  all  alone, 

A  lonesome  warrior — never  one  more  brave — 

Discreet,  considerate,  and  grave. 

He  fought  some  noble  battles  ;  but  he  gave 
No  voice  to  fame,  and  passed  away  unknown. 

So  grandly  to  occasions  did  he  rise, 

So  splendid  were  the  victories  he  planned, 
That  all  the  world  had  asked  him  to  command 
Could  it  his  native  valor  understand  : — 

He  fought  himself,  and,  winning,  gained  the  prize. 


118  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL, 


"FEAR  YE  HIM." 

I  fear  Him  not,  nor  yet  do  I  defy. 

Much  could  He  harm  me,  cared  He  but  to  try. 

Much  could  He  frighten  me,  much  do  me  ill, 
Much  terrify  me,  but — He  never  will. 

The  soul  of  justice  must  itself  be  just ; 

Who  trembles  most  betrays  the  most  distrust. 

So,  plunging  in  life's  current  deep  and  broad, 
I  take  my  chances,  ignorant — unawed. 


TO-DA  Y.  119 


TO-DAY. 

Work  on,  work  on, 

Work  wears  the  world  away ; 
Hope  when  to-morrow  comes, 

But  work  to-day. 

Work  on,  work  on, 

Work  brings  its  own  relief; 
He  who  most  idle  is 

Has  most  of  grief. 


120  RHYMES  OF  IRON  QUILL. 


DECORATION  DAY. 

[Recited  at  Arlington] 

It  is  needless  I  should  tell  you 

Of  the  history  of  Sumter, 
How  the  chorus  of  the  cannon  shook  its  walls ; 

How  the  scattered  navies  gathered, 

How  the  iron-ranked  battalions 
Rose  responsive  to  the  country's  urgent  calls. 

It  is  needless  that  I  tell  you, 

For  the  time  is  still  too  recent, 
How  was  heard  the  first  vindictive  cannon's  peal ; 

How  two  brothers  stopped  debating 

On  a  sad,  unsettled  question, 
And  referred  it  to  the  arbitrating  steel. 

It  is  needless  that  I  tell  you 

Of  the  somber  days  that  followed — 

Stormy  days  that  in  such  slow  succession  ran  ; 
Of  Antietam,  Chickamauga, 
Gettysburg,  and  Murfreesboro', 

Or  the  rocky,  cannon-shaken  Rapidan. 


DECORA  TION  DA  Y.  121 

It  was  not  a  war  of  conquest, 

It  was  fought  to  save  the  Union, 
It  was  waged  for  an  idea  of  the  right; 

And  the  graves  so  widely  scattered 

Show  how  fruitful  an  idea 
In  peace,  or  war,  may  be  in  moral  might. 

Brief  indeed  the  war  had  lasted 

Had  it  raged  in  hope  of  plunder; 
Briefer  still,  had  glory  been  its  only  aim. 

But  its  long  and  sad  duration 

And  the  graves  it  has  bequeathed  us 
Other  motives,  other  principles  proclaim. 

Need  I  mention  this  idea, 

The  invincible  idea, 
That  so  seemed  to  hold  and  save  the  nation's  life ; 

That,  resistless  and  unblenching, 

Undisheartened  by  disaster, 
Seemed  the  soul  and  inspiration  of  the  strife? 

This  idea  was  of  freedom — 

Was  that  men  should  all  stand  equal, 
That  the  world  was  interested  in  the  fight ; 

That  the  present  and  the  future 

Were  electors  who  had  chosen 
Us  to  argue  and  decide  the  case  aright. 


122  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  the  theories  of  freedom 

These  now  silent  bugles  uttered 
Will  reverberate  with  ever  growing  tones ; 

They  can  never  be  forgotten, 

But  will  work  among  the  nations 
Till  they  sweep  the  world  of  shackles  and  of  thrones. 

It  is  meet  that  we  do  honor 

To  the  comrades  who  have  fallen — 

Meet  that  we  the  sadly  woven  garlands  twine. 
Where  they  buried  lie  is  sacred, 
Whether  'neath  the  northern  marble 

Or  beneath  the  southern  cypress-tree  or  pine. 

Nations  are  the  same  as  children, 

Always  living  in  the  future, 
Living  in  their  aspirations  and  their  hopes; 

Picturing  some  future  greatness, 

Reaching  forth  for  future  prizes, 
With  a  wish  for  higher  aims  and  grander  scopes. 

It  is  better  for  the  people 

That  they  reach  for  an  ideal, 
That  they  give  their  future  nations  better  lives  ; 

Though  the  standard  be  unreal, 

Though  the  hope  meets  no  fulfillment, 
Though  the  fact  in  empty  dreams  alone  survives. 


DECORA  TION  DA  Y.  123 

If  the  people  rest  contented 

With  the  good  they  have  accomplished, 

Then  they  retrograde  and  slowly  sink  away. 
Give  a  nation  an  ideal, 
Some  grand,  noble,  central  project ; 

It,  like  adamant,  refuses  to  decay. 

Tis  the  duty  of  the  poet, 

Tis  the  duty  of  the  statesman, 
To  inspire  a  nation's  life  with  nobler  aims ; 

And  dishonor  will  o'ershadow 

Him  who  dares  not,  or  who  falsely 
His  immortal-fruited  mission  misproclaims. 


124  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


THE  DEFAULTER. 

CHICAGO. 

"  I'll  cross  the  sea,"  he  said,  "  and  the  future  will  be 

sunny, 

The  waves  no  more  will  rave ; 
I'll  cross  the  sea,"  he  said,  "  and  with  other  people's 

money 
Be  free  and  gay  beyond  the  ocean's  wave." 

PARIS. 

"  I'll    move  again,"   he   said,   "  to   Naples,  Rome,  or 
Venice. 

I  will  no  more  divide 
With  arrogant  detectives-;  I'll  live  no  more  in  menace, 

The  Apennines  shall  separate  us  wide." 

ROME. 

"  I'll  cross  the  sea,"  he  said,  "  in  a  tone  of  melancholy; 

I  can  divide  no  more. 
I've  failed  of  being  happy — have  failed  of  being  jolly, 

And  justice  waits  me  on  a  distant  shore." 


THE  DBF  A  UL  TER.  125 

CHICAGO. 

"  I'm  here,"  he  said,  "  for  justice.    Let  the  sentence 

be  impartial ; 
By  it  I  will  abide. 
For  my  wife  is  broken-hearted,  and   I  can  no  longer 

marshal 
Any  of  my  scattered  children  to  my  side." 

JOLIET. 

"  No  one,"  he  said,  "  in  chasing  after  happiness  has 

found  her : 

But  if  she  comes  at  all, 
She  comes   uncalled,   unbidden,  with   a  sunny   halo 

round  her — 
Visits  alike  the  hovel  and  the  hall." 


126  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


THE  CHILD  OF  FATE. 

I  am  the  child  of  fate. 

What  need  it  matter  me 

Where  I  shall  buried  be ! 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late, 

Whether  on  land  or  sea  ; 

What  may  it  matter  me ! 

Of  what  hope  hangs  upon 
We  can  no  insight  get ; 

Blindly  fate  leads  us  on, 
Storming  life's  parapet. 

That  which  our  course  impels, 

Naught  of  the  future  tells. 

Whether  upon  the  land, 

Whether  upon  the  strand, 
What  may  it  matter  me 
Where  I  shall  buried  be  ! 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late, 

All  are  the  sport  of  fate. 


THE  CHILD  OF  FA  TE.  127 

What  should  it  matter  me, 

Falling  as  others  fell, 

Shattered  by  shot  or  shell ; 
Either  on  land  or  sea, 

Wrecked  on  the  foaming  bar, 

Crushed  in  the  shattered  car. 

Whether  by  Arctic  cliffs, 

Where  the  ice  current  drifts, 

Where  the  bleak  night  wind  sobs, 
Where  the  black  ice-tide  throbs ; 

What  though  my  bark  may  be 

Sunk  in  some  sullen  sea  ! 

Each  has  his  work  and  way, 
Each  has  his  part  and  play, 

Each  has  his  task  to  do, 

Both  of  the  good  and  true. 
Whether  thou'rt  grave  or  gay, 

Be  thou  yet  brave  and  true. 

Work  for  the  right  and  just, 
With  an  intrepid  trust ; 

Then  it  need  matter  thee 

Naught,  if  thou  buried  be 
Either  on  land  or  strand, 

Either  'neath  soil  or  sea. 


128  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 


LEGOUSIN  AI. 

[From  the  Greek  of  Anacreon.] 

The  women  say : 

"  Anacreon,  you  are  old  ; 

For,  taking  up  a  mirror,  you  behold 
The  locks  of  rosy  youth  how  scattered  they." 

But  as  a  care 

It  is  not  unto  me 

How  old  am  I,  how  few  my  locks  may  be, 
So  long  as  youth's  young  spirit  still  is  there. 


THE  PHO  TO-GRAPH-  U-IST.  129 


THE  PHOTO-GRAPH-U-IST. 

[A  Romance  Founded  on  Fictionl\ 

Yes,  very  many  pictures  this  photographist  took, 

He  glued  'em  to  a  pasteboard,  and  stuck  'em  in  a 

book, 
So  when  you  wished  to  see  'em,  all  you  had  to  do  was 

look. 

To  have  their  pictures  taken,  with  joyousness  and  glee 
A  flock  of  little  maidens  came,  and  one  of  them,  O, 

she 
Was  just  as  sweet  and  beautiful  as  beautiful  could  be. 

Alas !  our  photo-graph-u-ist  was  captured  from  the 
start, 

For  when  she  "  struck  her  attitude  "  with  such  an  art 
less  art, 

She  glued  her  blue-eyed  picture  to  his  pasteboard  and 
his  heart. 

She  left  the  latter  picture  for  her  worshiper  to  keep. 
Too  well  had  it  been  taken,  so  accurate,  so  deep — 
It  robbed  him  of  his  happiness,  and  even  of  his  sleep. 


130  RHYMES  OF  IRONO_UILL. 

And  still  that  blue-eyed  photograph  did  haunt  him 
day  and  night ; 

Although  he  closed  his  peepers,  'twould  float  upon  his 
sight. 

At  last  he  says :  "  A  note  to  her  I  will  write  out  out 
right." 

"  O  blue-eyed  little  maiden,  I  never  would  invade 
The  old  time-honored  usages  that  courtesy  hath  made, 
Unless  I  had  an  object  which  I  couldn't  have  delayed. 

Allow  me,  little  maiden,  to  diffidently  say, 

How  ceaselessly  a  photograph  doth  haunt  me  night 

and  day, 
And  how  vainly  mental  effort  tries  to  banish  it  away. 

This  picture  in  my  memory  unceasingly  doth  dwell, 
It  follows  like  a  shadow,  and  it  haunts  me  like  a  spell ; 
It's  YOURS,  O  blue-eyed  maiden,  whom  I  love  so  wild 
and  well. 

This  picture  from  my  memory  can  never  be  effaced. 
You've  left  a  mental   '  negative,'  and    cruelly    have 

laced 
My  only  heart  with  yours,  within  that  crimson  peasant 

waist. 


THE  PHOTO-GRAPH-U-IST.  131 

It  grieves  me  such  a  story  so  abruptly  to  relate  ; 
I  only  ask  a  syllable — your  answer  is  my  fate, 
And  happiness  or  sorrow  I  impatiently  await." 


There  is  a  stately  mansion  built  with  elegance  and 

grace, 

It's  present  situation  doesn't  enter  in  the  case, 
It  may  be  Kansas  City,  or  some  other  noisy  place. 

There  is  a  spacious  parlor — I  will  not  tell  you  where, 
It's  lighted  up  with  chandeliers  into  a  perfect  glare, 
Two  persons  stand  before  a  crowd  that  has  assembled 
there. 

And  one  has  eyes  of  violet,  bright  as  an  amethyst, 
And  on  her  shoulders  float  her  chestnut  ringlets  like 

a  mist ; 
The  other,  he's  our  hero,  yes,  our  photo-graph-u-ist. 

A  minister  is  reading  something  very  neat  and  terse ; 
It  sounds  just  like  a  poem,  but  it  doesn't  come  in  verse ; 
It  ends  (if  I  remember)  with,  "  for  better  or  for  worse." 

Right  well,  my  photo-graph-u-ist,  right  well  the  choice 
you  made ; 


132  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  "negative"  is  now  " preserved,"  you  need  not  be 

afraid ; 
You've  gone  and  got  the  substance,  and  the  shadow 

will  not  fade. 


THE  KANSAS  DUG-OUT.  133 


THE  KANSAS  DUG-OUT. 

Stuck  into  a  Kansas  hillside,  far  away, 
Is  a  cabin  made  of  sod  and  built  to  stay  ; 

Through  the  window-like  embrasure 

Pours  the  mingled  gold  and  azure 
Of  the  morning  of  a  gorgeous  Kansas  day. 

Round  the  cabin  clumps  of  roses,  here  and  there, 
With  a  wild  and  welcome  fragrance  fill  the  air; 

And  the  love  of  heaven  settles 

On  their  open  pink-lined  petals, 
As  the  angels  come  and  put  them  in  their  hair. 

Blue-eyed  children  round  the  cabin  chase  the  day ; 
They  are  learning  life's  best  lesson — how  to  stay, 

To  be  tireless  and  resistful ; 

And  the  antelope  look  wistful, 
And  they  want  to  join  the  children  in  their  play. 

Fortune-wrecked  the  parents  sought  the  open  West, 
Leaving  happy  homes  and  friends  they  loved  the  best ; 

Homes  in  cities  bright  and  busy 

That  responded  to  the  dizzy, — 
To  the  whirling  and  tumultuous  unrest. 


134  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Oft  it  happens  unto  families  and  men 

That  they  need  must  touch  their  mother  earth  again  ; 

Rising,  rugged  and  reliant, 

Like  Antseus,  the  old  giant, 
Then  they  dare  and  do  great  things,-and  not  till  then. 

As  around  his  neck  the  arms  of  children  twine, 
Says  the  father  :  "  Courage,  children,  never  pine  ; 
Though  the  skies  around  you  blacken, 
Do  not  yield,  the  gales  will  slacken, 
Faith  and  fortitude  will  win,  O  children  mine." 

Happy  prairie  children  !    Time  with  rapid  wings 
Golden  trophies  to  the  earnest  worker  brings. 

As  the  Trojan  said :  "  Durate 

Vosmet  rebus  et  servate  "  * — 
"  Hold  yourselves  in  hand  for  higher,  nobler  things." 

*,<Eneid,  I.,  207. 


THE  BL  UE-BIRD  OF  NO  VEMBER.          135 


THE  BLUE-BIRD  OF  NOVEMBER 

The  wind   is   howling  wildly,   like  a   drove  of  lean 

kiyutes ; 
The  steel-clad,  floating,  freezing  storm-cloud  from  the 

northwest  comes. 

I'm  in  my  cheerful  office,  reading  poems,  and  my  boots 
Are  stuck  up  at  the  stove,  which  with  a  blazing  hod- 

ful  hums. 
I'm  reading  of  a  blue-eyed,  wandering,  hopeful  little 

princess  looking  for  a  home. 

I  lay  my  book  of  poems  upside  down  upon  a  chair — 
I  step  up  to  the  window,  where  a  box  of  fine-cut 

stands ; 
Says  I,  "  By  jings,  these  princesses  are  getting  mighty 

rare ; 
And  always  have  such  dreadful  times  with  lovers  and 

with  plans, 
I'd  like  to  see  a  useless,  blue-eyed,  wandering  little 

princess  looking  for  a  home." 

"  The  world  is  full  of  sympathy,  the  world  is  full  of 
homes ; 


136  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

The  world  is  full  of  friendships,  though  hidden  they 

may  be ; 
When  gone  are  friends  and   sympathy,  perforce  the 

creature  roams, 
Invoking  them,  imploring  them,  at  large,  o'er  land 

and  sea." 
[That's  what  this  sentimental  poet  writes  about  this 

blue-eyed  little  princess  looking  for  a  home.] 

See  here,  you  straggling  blue-bird,  hopping  on  the 
window  sill ! 

You  hop  and  flop  and  flutter,  like  a  worn-out  Greeley 
flag. 

You'd  better  hunt  your  roosting  place ;  it's  winter  and 
it's  chill, 

And  hoarse,  bleak,  evening  ice-storms  after  one 
another  tag. 

Says  she,  " Unhappy  me;  I'm  nothing  but  a  wander 
ing,  useless  little  blue-bird,  hunting  for  a  home." 

Says  I,  "Then  skip  for  Texas,  it  isn't  far  away; 

Go  down  to  where  the  gulf  mists  through  the  orange 
branches  troop ; 

Fly  off  to  where  the  sunshine  dances  on  Aransas 
Bay, 

The  winter-blooming  Brazos,  the  vine-lined  Guade 
loupe. 


THE  BLUE-BIRD  OF  NOVEMBER.  137 

If  I  were  an  itinerant,  useless,  homeless  blue-bird,  with 
your  wings,  I'd  find  a  home." 

Says  she,  "  Speak  not  of  Guadeloupe,  the  Brazos,  or 

the  Bay— 
The  winter-blooming  prairies  of  that  sunny-hearted 

zone  ; 
I  have  flown  through  orange  branches,  I  have  floated 

on  the  spray ; 

I  discover  no  companions,  and  I  find  myself  alone. 
I  find  myself  a  lonesome,  sad,  unsocial  little  blue-bird, 

longing  for  a  home." 

Into  the  raging  stove  I  then  did  hurl  a  hod  of  coal, 

And  raising  up  the  winter-crusted  sash-bar  from  the 
sill, 

Says  I,  "  Your  lonesome  feelings  I  to  some  extent  con 
dole. 

Come  in ;  here's  food  and  firelight,  be  a  tenant  at  your 
will; 

And  listen  while  I  read  a  lovely,  long-haired  poem  of 
a  blue-eyed  princess  looking  for  a  home. 

" '  The  world  is  full  of  happiness,  the  world  is  full  of 

homes, 
The  world  is  full  of  sympathy,  though  hidden  it  may 

be; 


138  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

When  gone  are  friends  and  sympathy,  perforce  the 

creature  roams, 
Princess  or  blue-bird,  seeking  them,  over  the  land  or 

sea.' 
That's  what  this  gifted,  wild-eyed,  transcendental  poet 

says  about  his  blue-eyed  little  princess  looking  for 

a  home." 

The  blue-bird  entered  gaily,  then  quicker  than  a  wink 
She  darted  out  and  left  me,  ere  the  window  could  be 

closed. 

I  said,  you  little  blue-bird,  you'd  better  stop  and  think ; 
But,  then,  you're  like  these  princesses.     It's  just  as  I 

supposed. 

You'd  be  unhappy  were  you  not  a  roaming,  rambling, 
useless  wanderer  with  no  home. 


THE  PRAIRIE  STORM.  139 


THE  PRAIRIE  STORM. 

With  the  daylight  came  the  storm  ; 
And  the  clouds,  like  ragged  veils, 
Trailed  the  prairie  until  noontide, 

Borne  by  vacillating  gales  ; 
And  the  red  elms  by  the  streamlets 
Dripped  upon  the  wild  plum  thickets, 
And  the  thickets,  on  the  crickets 
And  the  quails. 

Wet  and  sodden 
Lay  the  prairie  grass  untrodden. 

Through  the  dismal  afternoon 

Held  the  banks  of  cloud  aloof, 
As  the  smoke  in  frontier  cabins 

Hugs  the  rafters  in  the  roof. 
Broke  the  clouds  and  ceased  the  dripping, 
And  the  red  elms  by  the  streamlets 
Caught  the  fading  evening  beamlets 
That,  in  proof, 

Gave  the  token 
That  the  summer  storm  was  broken. 


140  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

With  a  nimbus  like  a  saint 

Rose  the  white  moon  in  the  east; 
And  the  grass  all  rose  together 

As  the  guests  do  at  a  feast ; 
And  the  prairie  lark  kept  singing 
All  the  night  long,  and  the  stirring 
And  the  whizzing  and  the  whirring 
Still  increased  ; 

Till  all  sorrow 
Yielded  to  the  brilliant  morrow. 


THE  REAL.  141 


THE  REAL. 

They  say 
There  is  a  flower  that  blooms  forever, 

'Neath  far-off  sunny  skies. 
Tis  called  the  amaranth.     It  withers  never, 
It  never  dies. 

I  never  saw  one. 

They  say 
A  bird  of  foreign  lands,  the  condor, 

Never  alights, 

But  through  the  air  unceasingly  doth  wander. 
In  long,  aerial  flights. 
I  never  saw  one. 

They  say 
That  in  Egyptian  deserts,  massive, 

Half  buried  in  the  sands, 
Swept  by  the  hot  sirocco,  grandly  impassive, 
The  statue  of  colossal  Memnon  stands. 
I  never  saw  it. 


142  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL, 

They  say 
A  land  faultless,  far  off,  and  fairy, 

A  summer  land,  with  woods  and  glens  and  glades, 
Is  seen  where  palms  rise  feathery  and  airy, 
And  from  whose  lawn  the  sunlight  never  fades. 
I  never  saw  it. 

They  say 
The  stars  make  melody  sonorous 

While  whirling  on  their  poles. 
They  say  through  space  an  interstellar  chorus 
Magnificently  rolls. 

I  never  heard  it. 

Now  what 
Care  I  for  amaranth  or  condor, 

Colossal  Memnon,  or  the  fairy  land, 
Or  for  the  songs  of  planets  as  they  wander 
Through  arcs  superlatively  grand. 
They  are  not  real. 

Hope's  idle 
Dreams  the  real  vainly  follows, 

Facts  stay  as  fadeless  as  the  Parthenon  ; 
While  fancies,  like  the  smoky-tinted  swallows, 

Flit  gaily  mid  its  arches  and  are  gone. 


IN  THE  SUPREME  COURT.  143 


IN    THE    SUPREME    COURT,    STATE    OF 
KANSAS. 

GEORGE  LEWIS,  Appellant, 

vs. 
STATE  OF  KANSAS,  Appellee. 


Appeal  from  Atchison  County. 


SYLLABUS. 

Law— paw ;  guilt — wilt.  When  upon  thy  frame  the  law- 
places  its  majestic  paw — though  in  innocence  or  guilt- 
thou  art  then  required  to  wilt. 

STATEMENT   OF    CASE    BY   REPORTER. 

This  defendant,  while  at  large, 
Was  arrested  on  a  charge 
Of  burglarious  intent, 
And  direct  to  jail  he  went. 
But  he  somehow  felt  misused, 
And  through  prison  walls  he  oozed, 
And  in  some  unheard-of  shape 
He  effected  his  escape. 


144  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

Mark  you  now  ! — again  the  law 
On  defendant  placed  its  paw, 
Like  a  hand  of  iron  mail, 
And  resocked  him  into  jail ; 
Which  said  jail,  while  so  corralled, 
He  by  sock-age  tenure  held. 

Then  the  court  met,  and  they  tried 
Lewis  up  and  down  each  side, 
On  the  good,  old-fashioned  plan ; 
But  the  jury  cleared  the  man. 

Now,  you  think  that  this  strange  case 
Ends  at  just  about  this  place. 
Nay,  not  so.     Again  the  law 
On  defendant  placed  its  paw — 
This  time  takes  him  round  the  cape 
For  effecting  an  escape; 
He,  unable  to  give  bail, 
Goes  reluctantly  to  jail. 

Lewis,  tried  for  this  last  act, 
Makes  a  special  plea  of  fact : 
"  Wrongly  did  they  me  arrest, 
As  my  trial  did  attest. 
And  while  rightfully  at  large, 
Taken  on  a  wrongful  charge, 


IN  THE  SUPREME  COURT.  145 

I  took  back  from  them  what  they 
From  me  wrongly  took  away." 

When  this  special  plea  was  heard, 
Thereupon  THE  STATE  demurred. 

The  defendant  then  was  pained 
When  the  court  was  heard  to  say, 
In  a  cold,  impassive  way, 

"  The  demurrer  is  sustained." 

Back  to  jail  did  Lewis  go  ; 

But,  as  liberty  is  dear, 

He  appeals,  and  now  is  here 
To  reverse  the  court  below. 

The  opinion  will  contain 

All  the  statements  that  remain. 

ARGUMENT   AND   BRIEF  OF  APPELLANT. 

"  As  a  matter,  sir,  of  fact, 
Who  was  injured  by  our  act — 
Any  property  or  man  ? — 
Point  it  out,  sir,  if  you  can. 
Can  you  seize  us,  when  at  large, 
On  a  baseless,  trumped-up  charge ; 
And,  if  we  escape,  then  say 

It  is  crime  to  get  away — 

J 


146  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

When  we  rightfully  regained 
What  was  wrongfully  obtained  ? 

Please-the-court-sir,  what  is  crime  ? 

What  is  right,  and  what  is  wrong  ? 

Is  our  freedom  but  a  song, 
Or  the  subject  of  a  rhyme  ?  " 


ARGUMENT   AND   BRIEF  OF  THE  ATTORNEY   FOR  THE 
STATE. 

"  When  THE  STATE,  that  is  to  say, 
WE,  takes  liberty  away — 
When  the  padlock  and  the  hasp 
Leave  one  helpless  in  our  grasp, 
It's  unlawful  then  that  he 
Even  dreams  of  liberty  ; 
Wicked  dreams  that  may  in  time 
Grow  and  ripen  into  crime — 
Crime  of  dark  and  damning  shape; 
Then  if  he  perchance  escape, 
Evermore  remorse  will  roll 
O'er  his  shattered,  sin-sick  soul. 

Please-the-court-sir,  how  can  we 
Manage  people  who  get  free  ?  " 


IN  THE  SUPREME  COURT.  147 

REPLY   OF  APPELLANT. 

"  Please-the-court-sir,  if  it's  sin, 
-Where  does  turpitude  begin  ?  " 

PER  CURIAM.      (OPINION   OF  THE  COURT.) 

"  We-don't-make-law  ;  we  are  bound 
To  interpret  it  as  found. 

The  defendant  broke  away ; 
When  arrested  he  should  stay. 

This  appeal  can't  be  maintained, 

For  the  record  does  not  show 

Error  in  the  court  below, 

And  we  nothing  can  infer. 
Let  the  judgment  be  sustained  ; 

All  the  justices  concur." 

{Note  by  the  Reporter^ 

Of  the  sheriff,  rise  and  sing  : 
"Glory  to  our  earthly  king!" 

(19  Kas.  266.) 


148  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 


THE  ORGAN  GRINDER. 

I'm  ignorant  of  music,  but  still,  in  spite  of  that, 
I  always  drop  a  quarter  in  an  organ  grinder's  hat. 
I  welcome  on  the  pavement  that  old,  familiar  noise, 
Around  which  fondly  gather  all  the  little  girls   and 

boys. 
While  solemn,  sad,  and  hungry  stands,  a-turning  at  the 

crank. 
A  nobleman  from  Europe,  of  attenuated  rank. 

The  nobleman  looks  sad,  but  gives  with   organistic 

glee, 

A  ballad  of  old  Ireland,  the  jewel  of  the  sea — 
"  The  most  distracted  country  that  we  have  ever  seen  ; 
They're  hangin'  men  and  women  there,  for  wearin*  of 

the  green, — 

For  wearin'  of  the  green,  for  wearin'  of  the  green ; 
They're  hangin'  men  and  women  there,  for  wearin'  of 

the  green." 

And  then  I  think  of  those  who  went  away  to  the  war 

with  me, 
Who  claimed  a  home  in  Ireland,  the  jewel  of  the  sea; 


THE  ORGAN  GRINDER.  149 

My  comrades  and  my  messmates,  none  braver  or  more 

true; 
Holding  aloft  the  stars  and  stripes,  a-wearing  of  the 

blue. 

Alas !  far  down  in  Dixie  their  many  graves  are  seen  ; 
Beneath  the  grassy  hillocks  they  are  wearing  of  the 

green. 

Immortal  little  island  !     No  other  land  or  clime 
Has  placed  more  deathless  heroes  in  the  Pantheon  of 
time. 

Anon  the  noble  Roman  brings  his  music  to  a  halt  ; 
There  seems  an  indication  of  a  neighboring  revolt. 
He  takes  a  change  of  venue  of  about  a  dozen  feet, 
And  enfilades  the  windows  that  front  upon  the  street. 
Around  him  whirl  the  girls  and  boys,  with  animated 

glee. 
Once   more  he  grinds ;  I  recognize  "  Der  Deutscher 

Companie." 

"Der    Deutscher   companie    ish    der   beshtest    com- 

panie" — 

The  music  bears  me  backward  to  the  year  of  '63. 
I  saw  a  German  regiment  step  out  from  our  brigade ; 
It  marched  across  a  meadow  where  a  hundred  cannon 

played ; 


150  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Its  bugles  hurled  defiance  ;  it  skirmished  up  a  slope 
Amid  a  fire  that  gave  no  man  a  promise  of  a  hope. 

They  fell  like  wheat ;  they  came  not  back  ;  at  night  no 
bugles  played — 

There  was  no  German  regiment  attached  to  our  brig 
ade. 

The  world  has  seen  thy  valor,  O  land  of  song  and  vine  ! 
Since  Hermann  plucked  the  eagles  from  the  ramparts 

of  the  Rhine. 
Down  valor's  lustrous  colonnade  is  seen  the  marble 

throng — 
Thy  warriors   and  thy  scholars,  O  land  of  vine  and 

song. 

About  this  time  the  nobleman  is  asked  to  take  a  rest; 
The  fires  of  indignation  light  his  Romulistic  breast. 
He  stops  the  crank ;  he  gazes  up  defiantly,  yet  mute, 
While  from  the  second  story  there  proceeds  an  ancient 

boot. 
With  steady  gaze  he  watches  it,  and,  like  a  man  of 

nerve, 
He  accurately  calculates  its  hyperbolic  curve. 

He  dodges  it;  he  marches  on;  but  soon  this  man  of 
Rome 


THE  ORGAN  GRINDER.  151 

Begins  again  to  turn  the  crank,  when — "Johnny  comes 

marching  home. 

When  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again,  hurrah ! 
hurrah — 

The  women  will  sing,  the  men  will  shout, 
The  boys  and  girls  will  all  turn  out ; 
And  we'll  all  be  gay  when  Johnny  comes  marching 
home." 

And  then  I  think  of  those  again  who  went  with  me  to 

war — 
They  knew  where  they  were  going,  and  what  they 

went  there  for ; 
They  felt  that  there  was   little  left  of  present  or  of 

past, 
Of  hope,  of  home,  of  future,  if  the  die  was  wrongly 

cast. 
Fires   smouldered  at  the  firesides,   when  the  Nation 

called,   "  To  arms  !  " 

My  comrades  left  the  forest,  the  foundries,  the  farms  ; 
They  fought  the  Nation's  battles,  on  the  land  and  on 

the  sea — 

Alas  !  alas  !  no  millionaire  went  off  to  the  war  with  me. 
The  merit  of  the  country  marched,  and  filled  the  Union 

ranks — 
The  money  of  the  country  marched,  and  filled  the 

English  banks. 


152  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

At  last  the  war  was  over,  and  Johnny  ceased  to  roam — 
He  came  with  bugles  playing;  the  specie  sneaked  back 
home. 

O  outcast  organ  grinder,  thy  simple  ballads  start 

The  frenzy  of  the  cyclone  through  the  highlands  of 
my  heart. 

Some  sneer  thy  ragged  music,  because  to  them  there 
comes 

No  bawling  of  the  bugles,  no  raving  of  the  drums. 

They  hear  no  "  boots  and  saddles  "  sound  in  the  mid 
night  chill ; 

They  hear  no  angry  cannon  thunder  up  the  rocky  hill  ; 

They  hear  no  canteens  rattle  ;  they  see  no  muskets 
shine, 

As  ranks  sweep  by  in  double  quick  to  brace  the  skir 
mish  line. 

Go  play  thy  simple  music,  O  friendless  sport  of  fate. 
The  ballads  of  the  people  are  the  bulwarks  of  the 

State. 
The  bugles  that  hang  dreaming  now,  like  bats  upon 

the  wall, 
Remember  well  those  choruses  that  rose  above  the 

call; 

In  their  reminiscent  musings,  those  battered  bugles  see 
The  glories  of  the  future  in  the  centuries  to  be. 


AN  AGREED  STA  TEMENT  OF  FACTS.      153 


AN  AGREED  STATEMENT  OF  FACTS 

AS  TO  THE  ADMISSION   OF   MR.   HIC  JONES  TO 
THE   PAINT   CREEK    BAR,    KANSAS. 

Jones   was  young  and   unassuming,  but  the  shrewd 

observer  saw 
Something  that  appeared  abnormal  in  the  structure  of 

his  jaw. 

When  the  court  convened,  old  Snipe-'em,  with  a  voice 

like  a  guitar, 

Offered  Jones's  application  for  admission  to  the  bar. 
Then  the  court  looked  wise  and  owly,  and  in  slow, 

judicial  tones 
Ordered    Snipe-'em,   Brown,  and    Spot-'em    first    to 

analyze  young  Jones ; 
Saying,  "  Gentlemen,  be  thorough ;  at  the  opening  of 

the  court, 
We  will  skip  the  motion  docket  and  consider  your 

report." 

Sheriff  Grabb  then  showed  the  party  to  the  "ante"- 
room — up-stairs, 


154  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Where  a  table  stacked  with  gun-wads  had  been  check 
mated  with  chairs. 

It  was  four  o'clock  precisely  ;  Spot- 'em  gently  turned 
the  key, 

Saying,  "Frauds,  I'll  act  as  banker — waltz  your  ducats 
up  to  me." 

The  analysis  proceeded  until  twelve  or  thereabout, 
When  the  stock  of  ardent  spirits  unexpectedly  gave 

out. 
Spot-'em  wrote  a  note  to  Julius,  saying,  "Julius,  if  you 

please, 
Send  us  up  a  red-hot  lunch  for  four ;   we're  raking 

down  for  threes." 
And  an  order  for  frumenti  and  cigars  was  sent  by 

Brown, 
Drawn  on  Thomas,  of  the  "  Wilder,"  chief  nose-artist 

of  the  town. 

The  committee  stopped  for  supper,  readjusted  all  their 
loans, 

And  continued  with  fresh  vigor  their  researches  for 
young  Jones. 

Just  about  this  time,  "the  district  clerk  of  the  afore 
said  court," 

By  some  unknown  coincidence,  dropped  in  to  see  the 
sport. 


AN  AGREED  STA  TEMENT  OF  FACTS.      155 

Having  hefted  ihtfrumentz,  he  did  cheerfully  reply 

To  their  bland  interrogations  in  regard  to  "  chicken- 
pie." 

Unpaid  fees  in  Spot-'em's  cow  case  were  discounted 
then  by  Brown, 

Which  the  clerk  took  out  in  gun- wads,  most  of  which 
young  Jones  raked  down. 

At  the  hour  of  three  precisely,  after  four  successful 

raids, 
Spot-'em  raked  down  Snipe-'em's  shirt  studs  on  a  hand 

composed  of  spades ; 
Snipe-'em    took    a    dose    of    tonic    and    reluctantly 

resigned, 
While  the  clerk,  with  sad  bravado,  went  a  col-lar-but- 

ton  blind. 
Hour  by  hour  the  game  continued  ;  Jones  came  in  on 

every  draw, 
But  no  syllable  proceeded  from  that  strange,  abnormal 

jaw. 

On  a  bench  snoozed  Snipe-'em,  sadly,  in  the  corner  of 
the  room, 

While  the  smoked-up  coal-oil  chimney  cast  a  deep, 
sepulchral  gloom ; 

And  at  times  his  troubled  slumbering  evoked  uncon 
scious  moans, 

As  if  saying,  "  It  is  difficult — this  analyzing  Jones." 


156  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

At  last  the  time  at  which  the  court  should  reassemble 

came ; 

It  did  not  seem  to  influence  the  progress  of  the  game; 
They  had  not  yet  made  up  their  minds  concerning 

their  report. 
And  here  we  leave  them  briefly  while  we  look  in  on 

the  court. 

A.  pro  tern,  judge  was  on  the  bench  ;  two  members  of 

the  bar 
Assaulted  twelve  one-gallows  men  with  words  of  legal 

war. 
The  way  was  this :  It  seems  that  Smith,  in  opening 

his  case, 

Had  told  the  jury  carelessly,  as  of  some  time  or  place, 
That  he  had  seen  a  real,  dead  mule ;  his  language  was 

not  pat — 

Of  course  nobody  ever  saw  a  mule  as  dead  as  that. 
But  still  Smith  was  excusable — the  heat  of  a  debate 
May  lead  a  man  unconsciously  to  slightly  overstate. 
Zeal  for  a  client's  lawsuit — the  more  if  it  be  weak — 
May  make  a  lawyer's  language  go  impalpably  oblique. 
But  still,  upon  the  other  hand,  an  orator,  forsooth, 
Should  try  and  keep  his  statements  within  gunshot  of 

the  truth ; 
And  Smith  was  very  careless  in  observance  of  the  rule 


AN  AGREED  STA  TEMENT  OF  FACTS.      157 

To  make  so  rash  a  statement  in  regard  to  any  mule. 
Its  absurdness  never  struck  him,  for  he  never  stopped 

to  think ; 
All  at  once  he  dropped  upon  it  when  he  saw  a  juror 

wink. 
Now  if  Smith   had   been  sagacious,  he  immediately 

then 
Would  have  modified  that  statement  to  those  twelve 

one-gallows  men — 
Would  have  intimated  mildly  that  it  might  have  been 

a  horse, 
But  he  didn't ;  conscience  smote  him,  and  he  sank 

down  with  remorse — 
Folded  up  as  folds  a  primrose  when  the  gates  of  day 

are  shut ; 
Folded  up  as  folds  a  jack-knife  when  a  piece  of  plug  is 

cut. 

The  greater  our  experience  the  more  surely  do  we  find 
Remarks  should  be  adaptable  unto  the  hearer's  mind. 
Twelve  preachers  might  have  "took  it  in,"  but  Smith 

could  never  fool 
Twelve  citizens  of  Turkey  Creek  with  reference  to  the 

mule. 

Then  up  rose  lawyer  Soak-'em,  and  his  lips  were  close 
compressed, 


158  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

His  left  hand  gripped  his  coat-tail,  his  right  was  on 

his  breast ; 
He  gazed  on  the  "  palladium  "  ;  his  look  was  stern  and 

high— 
In  thunder  tones  he  emphasized  Smith's  statement  as 

a  lie; 
And  then,  in  terms  that  Soak-'em  took  occasion  to 

adorn, 
He  branded   him — denounced   him — held  him  up  to 

public  scorn, 

Pointed  his  finger  at  him,  and,  in  allegoric  sense, 
He  peeled  Smith's  epidermis  off  and  hung  it  on  the 

fence. 

Then  in  a  few  pathetic  words  he  made  allusion  to 
The  immortality  of  mules,  which  every  juror  knew. 
The  jury  cheered  the  diction  that  in  such  profusion 

came, 
And  Smith — he  writhed  in  agony  of  hopeless  grief 

and  shame. 

The  jury  then  were  eulogized  appropriately  neat — 
Of  course  they  found  for  Soak-'em  without  rising  from 

their  seat. 
But  how  they  reached  the  merits  of  the  case  is  not  so 

clear, 
For  the  action  they  were  trying  was  replevin  for  a 

steer. 


AN  AGREED  STA  TEMENT  OF  FACTS.     159 

And  then  the  restless,  coatless,  but  appreciative  crowd 
Gave  Smith  "the  great,  big  horse-laugh,"  and  he  sat 
there  cold  and  cowed. 

Hereupon   came    Brown    and    Spot-'em,    Jones    and 

Snipe- 'em  in  the  rear, 
Arm  in  arm,  each  with  his  necktie  dangling  down 

below  his  ear ; 
Each   one   made   a  short,   spasmodic   pull   upon   his 

rumpled  vest, 
And,  fronting  up  before  the  judge,  the  whole  platoon 

right-dressed. 

"Hie — your  honor,"  said  old  Snipe-'em,  with  a  voice 
diffused,  yet  sweet, 

"  Hie — we've  ma'  der  'zamination  mor'  n'er  usual  com 
plete  ; 

We've  jus*  gone — hie — thro'  er  can'idate ;  's  proficiency 
is  fair.' 

"  Hie — you  bet,"  said  Brown,  who  eyed  the  court  with 
a  mild,  fishy  glare. 

*  Went  ri'  through — hie — Jones,"  said  Snipe-'em;  "he 

z'all  ri' — hie — on  'er  law; 
He  can  draw  'er  chattel  mortgage — or  three  aces  ever' 

draw; 


160  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

"L  got  all  Spot- 'em's  text-books  and  reports ;  mine,  too 
— hie — haint  he,  Brown  ? 

Young — hie — Jones  has  got  'er  principal  law  libr'y 
now  in  town. 

'Z  got  'er  daisy  moral  character — Jones  squarer  'an  a 

string ; 
Raised  old  Spot-'em  seventeen  dollars,  an'  he  didn't 

have  a  thing ; 
'Z  by  all  means  admit — hie — Jones  'er  bar ;  'ose  book 

mus'  stay  in  town  ; 
Hie — old   Spot's  too   full  for  utterance."    "Zas  so." 

responded  Brown. 

"Clerk,  swear  Hie  Jones,"  old  pro  tern,  said  in  lan 
guage  gruff  and  quick. 

(The  court  supposed  that  Jones's  antecedent  name 
was  "Hie.") 

Then  the  clerk  said  somewhat  vaguely,  "You  do 
swear — hie — from  'is  date, 

You  will  solem'ny  support  'er  conistution  of  er  State ; 

Be  'er  lawyer  of  'er  bar  from  this  date — hie — forthly 
hence. 

[Hold  up  'er  han'] — all  ri' — hie — bob — so  help  you — 
fifty  cents." 

Then  the  judge  gave  Jones  a  chromo  ;  Jones  received 
it  with  delight, 


AN  AGREED  STA  TEMENT  OF  FACTS.     161 

And  the  whole  platoon  meandered,  with  a  right  flank 
— hie — file  right. 

So  delighted  was  a  juror  that  the  shingle  nail  was  bust 
That  did  duty  as  a  button  where  the  juror's  jeans  were 

trussed ; 
But  the  cardiac  formation  of  young  Smith  was  turned 

to  stone — 
Ah  !  how  lurid  Jones's  future,  and  how  dismal  was  his 

own. 


Years  have  passed,  and   Smith  and   Spot-'em  have 

exuded  from  the  State; 
Brown  and  Soak- 'em  work  for  Findlay,  in  the  coal 

bank,  lifting  slate ; 
Snipe-'em  got  in  debt  to  everyone,  but  Snipe-'em 

never  frets — 
They  made  him  go  to  Congress  so  that  he  could  pay 

his  debts. 

Jones  is  everywhere  considered  a  bright,  peculiar  star ; 
He's  got  one  case  they  say  will  make  his  fortune  at 

the  bar : 
Ejectment  for  a  dam-site  on  the  shores  of  Yellow 

Paint— 


162  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

On  that  boulder-drifted  shore, 
Where  the  angry  billows  roar, 

And  the  women  loudly  snore,  whether  they're  asleep 
or  ain't. 

He  wrote  and  now  delivers  an  exceedingly  fine  lecture 

On  "  Proceedings  in  Tribunals  of  Penultimate  Con 
jecture  ; " 

And  this  very  able  thesis,  though  epitomized  and 
short, 

Contains  the  law  for  all  the  courts  of  dernier  last 
resort. 

Let  us  hope  that  Jones's  future,  so  auspiciously  begun, 
May,  like  Snipe-'em's  outlawed  due  bills,  have  suffi 
cient  time  to  run. 


A  CORN  POEM.  163 


A  CORN  POEM. 

[Delivered  at  Kansas   Celebration,    Centennial  4th  of 
July.} 

Our  President  and  Governor  have  said, 
In  proclamations  that  you  all  have  read, 
That  we  the  record  of  the  hundred  years, 
Its  hopes,  its  histories,  its  pioneers, 
Should  hear  in  public  ;  wishing  to  obey, 
We  meet  together  on  the  present  day. 

As  local  annals  and  such  themes  as  those 

Are  more  attractive  when  addressed  in  prose, 

And  as  the  dense  statistics  of  the  times 

Are  somewhat  irreducible  to  rhymes, 

We  leave  those  subjects  to  their  proper  charge, 

And  take  the  liberty  to  roam  at  large. 

There  have  been  men  who  into  verse  complete 
Could  rhyme  a  township  map,  a  tax  receipt ; 
But  no  such  man  is  here.     Ourself  to-day 
Must  treat  of  subjects  in  a  general  way. 
While  present  prices  rule  on  steers  and  grain, 
Divine,  first-class  emotion  can't  sustain. 


164  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

At  such  low  figures,  any  Kansas  muse 

All  pyrotechnic  efforts  must  refuse  ; 

Dates,  names,  statistics,  and  such  themes  as  those 

Must  go  remanded  to  the  realms  of  prose  ; 

So  here  a  humble  poem  we  commence, 

Equivalent  to  corn  at  twenty  cents. 

Nate  Price  of  Troy,  at  Leavenworth  last  June, 

Told  of  a  backwoods  Arkansaw  saloon  : 

Two  gay  "  commercial  tourists,"  somewhat  dry, 

Stepped  in  for  drinks  as  they  were  passing  by. 

Says  one  :  "  Some  lemon  in  my  tumbler  squeeze." 

The  other  says  :  "  Some  sugar,  if  you  please." 

Each  got  a  pistol  pointed  at  his  head — 

"  You'll  take  her  straight,"  the  bar-keep  gravely  said. 

The  gay  commercial  tourists  bowed  to  fate, 

And  quickly  took  their  drinks  and  exits  straight. 

The  humble  poem  that  we  here  begin 

Has  got  no  lemon  and  no  sugar  in. 

It's  as  it  is,  and  we  beg  leave  to  state, 

On  this  "auspicious  day"  you'll  take  it  straight. 


My  theme  to-day  is  History — not  the  shelf 
Whereon  she  sets  her  idols,  but  herself. 


A   CORN  POEM.  165 

If  I  examine  History  aright, 
I  read  of  one  long  and  unbroken  fight — 
One  thrilling  drama ;  every  scene  and  act 
Contains  the  record  of  a  city  sacked. 
From  time  to  time  the  curtain  drops  amain 
On  cities  blazing,  with  defenders  slain  ; 

Yet,  ere  their  ashes  have  had  time  to  cool, 
They  start  again  to  opulence  and  rule. 
To  what  strange  power,  so  vitalized  and  strong. 
Do  these  recurrent  energies  belong  ? 
Whence  come  the  latent  forces  that  uprear, 
From  ash  and  wave,  the  palace  and  the  pier? 

No  answer  back  the  old  historian  brings  ; 

His  is  a  tale  of  battles  and  of  kings. 

His  prose  and  verse  were  written  to  proclaim 

Some  useless  battle,  or  some  kingly  name — 

No  honor  to  the  brains  or  to  the  toil 

That  pluck  the  wealth  from  mountain,  sea,  and  soil. 

They  leave  that  out — but  throw  distinguished  light 

Upon  the  least  minutise  of  a  fight. 

They  name  the  leaders,  and  each  word  they  said  ; 

The  hour,  the  spot,  some  phalanx  charged,  or  fled ; 

The  time  and  place  some  squadron  came  in  view, 

And  what  it  did,  or  what  it  failed  to  do; 


166  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

And  then  because  some  something  was  not  done, 
This  king,  or  that,  is  whipped  and  has  to  run. 
Then  come  three  cheers  for  the  successful  king, 
And  bugles  peel — like  slippery  elms  in  spring. 

Since  Cecrops  landed  on  the  Grecian  shore, 
Brought  on  a  stock — started  a  country  store — 
Picked  out  a  site  by  some  prophetic  guess, 
And  boomed  old  Athens  to  a  grand  success, 
The  human  mind  has  always  sought  renown 
In  founding  states,  or  building  up  a  town. 
Full  four  and  thirty  centuries  have  passed 
Since  enterprising  Cecrops  breathed  his  last, 
And  many  cities  since  that  early  day 
Have  grown  up  grandly,  and  have  passed  away ; 
Yet  ancient  chroniclers  forget  to  state 
What  built  the  cities,  and  what  made  them  great. 
Of  those  of  whom  the  olden  stories  sing, 
The  greatest  hero  is  the  unknown  king. 
Of  him  of  whom  old  history  gives  no  clew — 
This  unknown  king — declare  I  unto  you. 

Who  framed  the  social  structure  ?  paid  the  bill  ? 
Who  organized  its  labor  and  its  skill  ? 
Who  built  the  ships  and  wharfs  ?  Who  wove  the  sail  ? 
Who  fed  the  armies?  and  who  forged  their  ma-il? 


A   CORN  POEM.  167 

No  answer  ancient  history  gives  back. 
These  unknown  kings  no  wealthy  cities  sack; 
And  history,  with  proud,  patrician  frown, 
Ignores  a  power  that  never  burned  a  town. 
Read  of  the  growth  of  states,  and  you  will  find 
Their  opulence  to  some  great  king  assigned; 
And  being  king,  by  accident  or  force, 
He  gets  the  credit,  as  a  thing  of  course. 
Now,  when  the  truth  is  told,  it  shows  two  things : 
That  states  are  rich  and  great  in  spite  of  kings ; 
Also  that  nations  opulent  are  made 
Neither  by  kings  nor  battles,  but  by  trade. 

Old  Business  is  the  monarch.     He  rules  both 
The  opulence  of  nations  and  their  growth. 
Him  that  we  call  endearingly  "  Old  Biz," 
He  does  the  work,  the  credit  all  is  his. 
He  builds  their  cities  and  he  paves  their  streets, 
He  feeds  their  armies  and  equips  their  fleets. 
Kings  are  his  puppets,  and  his  arm  alone 
Contains  the  muscle  that  can  prop  a  throne  ; 
Soon  would  the  gilded  fabric  tumble  down 
Were  Business  not  the  regent  of  the  crown. 

Old  History,  stand  up.     We  wish  to  ask 
Why  you  so  meanly  have  performed  your  task. 


168  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Under  your  arm  you  have  a  showy  book, 

In  which  we  now  insist  that  we  may  look; 

We'd  like  to  see  what's  in  that  gilt-edged  tome. 

Say,  did  Old  Business  ever  reign  in  Rome? 

You  say  he  didn't  ?    Well,  may  we   inquire 

If  the  aforesaid  Business  reigned  at  Tyre  ? 

"  Don't  b'lieve  he  did  ?  "  Well,  look  the  index  through 

And  see  if  he  is  mentioned  once  by  you. 

"  Can't  find  his  name  ?  "  Well,  that  is  somewhat  queer. 

Say,  of  Old  Business  did  you  ever  hear  ? 

You  never  did?    Well  I'm  inclined  to  think 

Pens  full  of  pigs,  and  not  pens  full  of  ink, 

Should  be  the  object  of  your  future  skill, 

And  that  your  book  should  feed  the  paper  mill. 

O  History !  the  language  may  be  broad, 

But  we  must  here  impeach  you  as  a  fraud. 

There  is  a  cheerful  story  that  is  told 

About  a  great  Egyptian  king  of  old  ; 

He  thought  to  build  a  lighthouse  on  an  isle 

That  fronted  on  the  delta  of  the  Nile. 

He  thought  to  take  the  money  of  the  State, 

Build  something  big,  and  be  forever  great. 

He  called  for  architects,  selected  one, 

And  turned  him  over  treasure  by  the  ton. 

On  that  flat  isle,  o'er  which  the  breakers  curled, 


A   CORN  POEM.  169 

Up  rose  the  second  wonder  of  the  world  ; 

Far  o'er  the  land  and  distant  ocean  viewed, 

Five  hundred  feet  in  snow  white  marble  hewed ; 

And  on  its  summit  watch  fires,  day  and  night, 

Directed  shipping  with  a  constant  light — 

The  tower  of  Pharos,  capped  with  massive  ledge, 

Bearing  the  monarch's  name  upon  the  edge, 

And  o'er  the  sea  for  many  a  league  marine 

The  royal  name  of  Ptolemy  was  seen. 

The  architect,  unhonored  and  unknown, 

Died,  leaving  all  the  credit  to  the  throne  ; 

The  man  whose  splendid  genius  planned  and  wrought 

Was  not  considered  worthy  of  a  thought. 

Then  died  the  king,  and  people  one  by  one 

Spoke  of  the  tower  as  something  he  had  done. 

There  stood  the  lighthouse,  but  each  new  decade 

Beheld  the  king's  inscription  slowly  fade. 

It  dimmer  grows,  until  it  fades  from  sight, 

And  then  a  new  inscription  comes  to  light; 

The  architect  asserts  his  rightful  claim — 

Where  stood  the  king's,  now  stands  the  builder's  name. 

The  king's  name,  wrought  in  stucco  work  and  paint, 

Each  year  beheld  grow  dimmer  and  more  faint; 

Filled  with  cement,  this  sentence  had  been  hid  : 

"  For  mariners,  by  Sos-tra-tos,  of  Cnid." 

The  rugged,  massive  letters,  carved  in  Greek, 


170  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL, 

The  builder  and  his  residence  bespeak, 
While  in  the  dust,  upon  the  sea  and  shore, 
The  kingly  name  goes  scattered  evermore. 

Great  States,  whose  splendid  ruins  scattered  lie, 

Have  stood  like  wonders  in  the  days  gone  by  ; 

And  every  State,  before  it  met  decay, 

Has  ruled  the  world  on  some  eventful  day — 

Has  taken  rule  by  virtue  of  its  sons. 

Through  every  State  the  thread  of  empire  runs ; 

The  ancient  nations  and  the  ancient  creeds 

Are  strung  on  empire  like  a  row  of  beads  ; 

And  on  the  ruins  that  in  silence  sleep 

The  name  of  business  has  been  graven  deep. 

And  he  has  made  them  be  what  they  have  been  ; 

Has  made  them  win  because  they  needs  must  win. 

And  he  the  architect,  who  planned  and  wrought, 

Building  no  better  than  he  knew  and  thought — 

And  over  all,  in  stucco  work  and  paint, 

The  names  of  kings  are  feebly  seen  and  faint. 

The  now  aggressive  spirit  of  the  age 
Adds  to  old  History  an  unwritten  page. 
Chip  off  the  paint  and  plaster,  and  anew 
Restore  the  name  of  Business  to  our  view. 
Vain  were  the  effort,  in  this  modern  age, 
To  tell  when  Business  came  upon  the  stage ; 


A   CORN  POEM,  171 

First  when  and  where  he  hung  his  shingle  out, 
Is,  like  a  jury  trial,  full  of  doubt. 

The  first  important  European  town, 

In  point  of  time  and  subsequent  renown, 

Was  Athens ;  and  when  founded,  facts  attest 

That  nerve  and  business  then  were  tending  west. 

If,  for  a  point  of  time  to  fix  upon, 

We  take  the  era  of  King  Solomon, 

We  find  that  restless  movement  of  the  race 

Toward  the  western  world  is  taking  place ; 

The  emigration  has  become  so  vast, 

With  buccaneers  the  seas  are  swarming  fast ; 

Athens  grows  large,  and  public  spirit  calls 

For  graded  streets  and  more  extensive  walls; 

Then  Greece  fills  up,  until  the  moving  host 

Is  banked  upon  the  Adriatic  coast. 

The  sea  but  for  a  moment  stops  the  tide ; 

Brundusium  springs  from  the  Italian  side. 

Then  west  by  north,  in  undiminished  size, 

The  volume  of  the  emigration  plies  ; 

Back  o'er  the  line,  to  deep  Brundusium's  bay, 

Rome  builds  and  paves  the  world-wide  Appian  way. 

Checked  by  the  western  sea,  the  restless  tide 

Builds  up  a  chain  of  cities,  side  by  side. 

Then,  seeking  vent  on  scarce  divergent  lines, 


172  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

Boils  through  the  foot-hills  of  the  Apennines, 

Builds  Florence,  Milan,  Genoa,  Turin, 

Halts  at  the  Alps,  but  halts  to  re-begin  ; 

Then,  like  a  pent-up  torrent,  the  advance 

Pours  through   the   Alps    and   floods  the    plains  of 

France. 

The  path  of  empire  follows  in  its  train  ; 
The  western  world  it  gives  to  Charlemagne. 

Still  on  it  goes,  the  straits  of  Dover  crossed  ; 
England  opposes,  but  her  cause  is  lost ; 
The  island  fills,  no  land  is  left,  then  she 
Starts  out  to  grasp  the  empires  of  the  sea. 

Who  planned  this  movement?     What   impelled  the 

tide? 

Kings  tried  to  stop  it,  but  as  vainly  tried. 
— How  quickly  is  the  frail  conundrum  guessed  ? 
— It  was  Old  Business — he  was  going  west. 

This  bright  New  World — its  wonderful  career, 
Is  too  well  known  to  be  examined  here. 
Its  hopes,  its  progress,  rapid  and  diverse, 
Need  greater  inspiration  to  rehearse. 
To-day  we  turn  the  hour-glass,  and  anew 
The  sands  of  a  fresh  century  start  through. 

On  July  Fourth  we  always  float  the  flag 


A   CORN  POEM.  173 

And  push  the  old  bald-eagle  from  the  crag ; 
Fly  him  the  length  and  breadth  of  this  fair  land, 
From  the  Penobscot  to  the  Rio  Grande  ; 
Then,  without  rest,  we  quickly  start  him  on 
A  trip  from  Florida  to  Oregon  ; 
Then  bring  him  back,  and  send  him  to  the  sky, 
And  let  him  stay  there  till  the  next  July. 
O  grand  old  bird,  o'er  many  a  weary  mile 
They've  made  you  sail  in  oratorio  style, 
While  fledgeling  speakers,  in  refulgent  prose, 
Capped  many  a  gorgeous  climax  as  you  rose. 
To-day  our  choicest  colors  are  unfurled, 
Soar  up,  proud  bird,  and  circle  round  the  world  ; 
And  we  predict  that  nowhere  will  you  find 
A  place  like  Kansas  that  you  left  behind. 
He  who  has  lived  in  Kansas,  though  he  roam, 
Can  find  no  other  spot  and  call  it  "  Home." 

As  Ingalls  says,  a  Kansas  man  may  stray — 
May  leave — perchance  depart,  or  go  away  ; 
In  short,  may  roam,  but  be  it  anywhere, 
He  must  return,  if  he  can  raise  the  fare. 
No  other  State  those  wants  so  well  subserve 
Of  enterprise,  of  energy,  of  nerve ; 
No  other  State  more  thoroughly  maintains 
A  deep,  firm  hold  on  enterprise  and  brains; 


174  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

No  other  State  has  held  a  greater  power 

To  meet  the  harsh  requirements  of  the  hour. 

Though  border  war  her  cities  overrun, 

Though  swarms  of  locusts  shade  the  summer  sun, 

No  matter  what  misfortunes  may  occur, 

The  State  goes  on  as  if  they  never  were. 

Cities  arise  where  towns  were  burned  before, 

The  prairies  sparkle  with  the  church  and  store, 

And  painted  harvesters,  fleet  after  fleet, 

Like  yachts,  career  through  seas  of  waving  wheat. 

We  all  believe  in  Kansas  ;  she's  our  State, 

With  all  the  elements  to  make  her  great — 

Young  men,  high  hopes,  proud  dreams — 'tis  ours  to  see 

The  State  attain  to  what  a  State  should  be. 

And  when  a  hundred  years  have  drifted  by, 
When  comes  the  next  Centennial  July; 
When  other  orators,  in  other  verse, 
Far  better  days  in  better  ways  rehearse ; 
When  other  crowds,  composed  of  other  men, 
Shall  re-enact  the  present  scene  again  ; 
May  they  be  able  then  to  say  that  she 
Is  all  that  we  have  wished  the  State  to  be. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  175 

THE  MEDICINE  MAN. 
A  Story  of  a  Kansas  Pioneer. 

Stories  often  teem  with  sadness — this  is  desolate  and 

grim; 

It  is  of  a  Kansas  doctor,  and  the  way  we  treated  him. 
And  the  object  of  these  verses  is  an  eloquent  appeal 
To  those  higher,  nobler  feelings  that,  of  course,  you 

know  you  feel. 

Any  man  who  hears  this  story  is  obliged  to  shed  a  tear ; 
When  I  read  it  to  the  editor  that  runs  the  Pioneer, 
Hopeless  melancholy  seized  him,  and  for  quite  a  week, 

or  more, 
He  was  wading  round  in  gum  boots  through  the  tears 

upon  the  floor. 

Out  to  Kansas  came  a  doctor,  wide  awake  and  full  of 

pluck; 
Up  in  Atchison  he  settled,  and  he  leaned  up  close  to 

luck. 
There  he  hung  out  his  diploma,  and  he  stayed  from 

spring  to  fall, 
But  he  never  saw  an  invalid,  and  never  got  a  call. 


176  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Colonel  Martin  then  advised  him  that  more  practice 

could  be  got, 

If  he  only  shipped  his  talent  to  suburban  Wyandotte. 
Up  in  Wyandotte  he  lingered  just  about  a  year  in  all, 
And  he  talked  about  his  college,  but  he  never  reached 

a  call. 
Buchan   urged   him :    "  Raid   Topeka " ;    but    Taylor 

calmly  said : 
"  Try  Leavenworth  or  Lawrence,  '  hwich    are  better,  in 

their  stead." 

Lawrence,  Leavenworth,  Topeka  yielded  similar  re 
sults, 
And  he  felt  much  disappointment,  but  he  didn't  feel 

much  pulse. 
One  sad  day  he  met  with  Murdock,  who  observed : 

"  Come  down  below  ; 
Try  the  Nile  of  sunny  Kansas;"  and  the  doctor  said 

he'd  go. 
First  he  cashed  a  fat  ancestral  draft;  then,  plunging 

in  the  dark, 
Gave  to  fortune  and  to  Murdock  the  direction  of  his 

bark. 

Down  at  Wichita  he  anchored,   but  his  chance  was 

just  as  slim; 
His  bark  was  all  Peruvian — they  had  no  need  of  him. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  177 

Shortly  after  he  had  "  opened  out "  in  busy  Wichita, 
He  absorbed   by  merest   accident  the   rudiments  of 
"  draw." 

His  office  stayed  unopened  for  a  few  eventful  days; 
He  diagnosed  that  noble  game  in  all  its  wondrous 

ways. 
One  eve  he  found  a  bob-tailed  flush  of  most  important 

size ; 
He  stayed  behind  it  and  became  a  pauper  in  disguise. 

Then  said  he :   "  This  '  bleeding  Kansas '  is  no  place 

for  me  to  dwell — 
One  lone  '  call '  in  three  years  and  a  half,  and  the  man 

that '  called '  was  well !  " 
Then  a  very  lonesome  shirt  or  two  into  his  trunk  he 

stored, 
And  he  left  his  watch  in  mortmain  with  his  landlord 

for  his  board ; 
And  he  straightened  up,  disgusted,  and  relieved  his 

burdened  mind 
With  opinions   of  the  country  he  was  now  to  leave 

behind. 

"  There  is  something  to  this  country  that  I  do  not 
understand : 

Working,  scheming,  trade,  and  business,  lively  law 
suits,  labor,  land ; 


178  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

There  is  not  that  noble  yearning  here  for  pills  and  cul 
tured  thought, 

All  my  classic  erudition  is  both  useless  and  unsought; 

And  the  people,  as  I  find  them,  are  as  ignorant  as 
geese 

Of  the  woes  of  Asia  Minor  and  the  Iliad  of  Greece. 

No  one  stops  to  read  my  sheepskin   that  has   hung 

from  week  to  week ; 
No  one  ever  mentions  Ajax,  no  one  ever  mentions 

Greek. 
People  suffer  in  abundance  from  the  most  unheard-of 

health, 
And  they  keep  acquiring  lawsuits  and  accumulating 

wealth. 
Day  by  day  a  man  keeps  working,  just  as  happy  as  a 

clam, 
If  he  only  has  the  cash  to  buy  a  lawsuit  and  a  ham. 

Only  yesterday  I  saw  a  man  I  thought  would  surely 

die ; 
He  had  got  a  compound,  comminuted  fracture  of  the 

thigh. 
Aching  but  a  half  an  hour  or  so,  the  leg  declined  to 

swell, 
He  poured  cold  water  on  it  and  the  next  day  it  was 

well. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  179 

Then  he  worked  six  hours  that  afternoon,  and,  ere  the 

sun  went  down, 
He  got  into  a  lawsuit  with  the  fattest  man  in  town. 

Now  and  here  I  pack  my  little  trunk.     By  vum !   I 

wouldn't  stay 
In  climates  where  a  man  gets  old,  dries  up,  and  blows 

away ; 
Wouldn't  live  in  a  community  where  fortunes  every 

week 
Can  be  made  by  men  without  the  slightest  rudiments 

of  Greek. 
Let  me — let  me  find  some  sickly,  classic,  sentimental 

spot. 
Here,   sir!    check    my  baggage  eastward,   ma   Paint 

Creek  and  Fort  Scott." 


Then  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  high  and 
noble  brow, 

And  he  filed  some  affidavits  that  I  don't  remember 
now. 

Shortly  after  this,  a  mule  train,  from  the  westward 
coming  slow, 

Camped  beside  the  raging  Paint  Creek,  with  the  doc 
tor  on  the  go. 


180  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

An  old  army  mule  that  evening,  after  supper,  just  for 

fun, 
Kicked  and  broke  the  doctor's  arms  and  legs,  and  all 

his  ribs  but  one. 


This  old  mule  would  make  a  hero  for  a  romance  or  a 
song; 

When  the  drums  beat,  and  the  bugles  sounded  battle 
loud  and  long, 

He  enlisted  in  the  army,  and  he  helped  to  pull  a  train 

Up  the  mountains,  down  the  valleys,  through  the  sun 
shine  and  the  rain ; 

And  right  well  he  served  his  country,  for  he  knew 
where  duty  lay ; 

He  could  live  for  weeks  on  end-gates  when  they 
couldn't  give  him  hay. 

No  complaining,  no  desertion ;  through  the  gumbo  to 

the  hub, 
Week  by  week  our  long-eared  hero  jerked  a  wagon 

load  of  grub. 
Lightning  struck  him,  cannon  shot  him,  but  he  never 

failed  nor  flunked ; 
Danger  left  him  as   it   found   him  —  undiscouraged, 

undefunct. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  181 

And  in  all  my  army  service  I  have  never  seen  a  mule 

With  a  keener  comprehension  of  the  educated  fool. 

He  would  spot  a  man  instanter,  if  he  overheard  him 
speak 

About  Darwin,  Herbert  Spencer,  Correlation,  Force  or 
Greek ; 

He  would  work  and  watch  in  silence,  and  look  sheep 
ish  day  by  day, 

One  eye  closed  in  meditation,  till  that  man  got  in  his 
way ; 

Then  that  person's  friends  were  lucky  if  they  did  not 
have  to  make 

A  collection  of  their  comrade  with  a  basket  and  a  rake. 

Three  long  days  and  nights  the  doctor  in  my  shanty 
did  remain ; 

Oftentimes  he'd  grow  despondent,  and  have  symptoms 
of  a  pain  ; 

Oftentimes  he'd  seem  discouraged,  and  would  say  in 
accents  weak : 

"  Oh  !  condemn  a  State  where  folks  get  rich  without  a 
word  of  Greek." 

Then  his  language  would  get  flighty  from  the  press 
ure  of  his  ills, 

Mixing  Latin,  Greek,  and  Ajax  up  with  three  jacks, 
checks,  and  pills. 


182  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

But  I  knew  he  would  recover,  or,  at  least,  I  thought  I 

knew 
That  the  ozone  in  the  climate  was  dead  sure  to  bring 

him  through. 
On   the   fifth   day,   convalescent,  rose  this  damaged 

guest  of  mine, 
And  upon  the  sixth,  all  right,  but  sad,  he  crossed  the 

Kansas  line. 
Left  behind  him  in  his  exit  were  ambition,  hope  and 

spunk ; 
Kansas  retained  his  enmity — Paint  Creek  retained  his 

trunk. 


Now,  a  true  poetic  justice  very  rigidly  asserts 

That  I  ought  to  add  a  sequel  to  our  hero  and  his 

shirts  ; 
And  a  thorough  comprehension  of  the  reason  of  the 

rule 
Says  the  sequel  might  embody  something  further  of 

the  mule. 


Well,  our  hapless,  trunkless  hero   has  regained  his 

native  State, 
He's  aesthetic,  he's  got  wisdom,  and  is  honored — but 

sedate ; 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  183 

He  has  found  congenial  country,  rich  and  sickly,  so  to 

speak, 
Where  the  people  live  on  coupons,  and  like  medicine 

and  Greek ; 

And  a  very  pleasant  stipend  he  is  able  now  to  draw 
From  the  active  perspiration  of  his  large  and  manly 

jaw. 
He  has  gotten  out  a  volume,  which  a  leading  paper 

said 
Showed  a  vast  amount  of  learning,  and  a  very  level 

head  ; 

And  he  lectures  to  the  students  in  the  colleges  near  by; 
And  he  tells  about  ambition — how  a  man  should  do  or 

die ; 

Talks  of  allegoric  eagles  flying  upward  to  the  sun  ; 
Tells  them  all  about  success  in  life,  and  how  the  thing 

is  done. 
And  he  lectures  those  poor  students  all  about  the  roll 

of  fame — 
How  a  man  should  take  a  broad-axe,  as  it  were,  and 

hew  a  name; 
Talks  of   noble,  high  endeavor,  and  refers  in  strains 

sublime 
To  those  antiquated  footsteps  left  upon  those  sands  of 

time. 


184  RHYMES  OF  I  RON  QUILL. 

These  same  lectures  have  been  printed — they're  the 
best  I  ever  saw  ; 

But  they  do  not  mention  Kansas,  and  they  don't  refer 
to  "  draw." 

Now  my  heart  would  swell  with  pathos,  and  my  lan 
guage  fill  with  gush, 

Just  to  think  what  nerve  it  takes  to  stay  behind  a  bob 
tail  flush ; 

But,  of  course,  it  isn't  business  for  a  lecturer  to  speak 

Of  such  subjects  to  a  people  who  are  so  diseased  with 
Greek. 

But  if  they  will  send  these  students  to  the  shore  of 

Yellow  Paint- 
To  that  boulder-drifted  shore,  where  the  angry  billows 
roar, 

And  the  women  loudly  snore,  whether  they're  asleep 
or  ain't — 

I  could  tell  them  in  my  lecture  that  there  seems  to  be 
a  law 

That  applies  as  well  to  greatness  as  we  know  it  does 
to  "draw." 

If  you  have  some  pairs  to  draw  to,  and  have  only  got 
the  sand, 

You  may  make  the  world  a  pauper  on  the  first  or 
second  hand. 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN.  185 

If  you  have  no  pair  to  draw  to,  you  must  "ante  "  and 

must  wait : 

You  are  likely  to  be  gobbled,  but  not  likely  to  be  great. 
Fame  is  something  like  the  waiter  that  went  roaring 

down  the  hall, 
Giving  neither  bread  nor  greatness  to  the  man  with 

one  fish-ball. 


When  the  summer  moon  is  beaming  on  the  prairie  and 

the  stream, 
When  my  silver-lighted  shanty  seems  the  palace  of  a 

dream, 
Then   I  sit  out  on  my  wood  pile,  and  I  ponder  very 

fast 
O'er  the  somewhat  funny  present,  and  the  much  more 

funny  past ; 
Think  of  things  that  might  have   happened — things 

forgotten  long  ago — 

How  the  past  had  changed  the  present  had  it  hap 
pened  so  and  so. 
Then  I  think  about  the  future,  and  the  turn  that  things 

may  take ; 
And  I  say :  Hopes  are  but  dreamings  of  a  person  wide 

awake ; 


186  RHYMES  OF  IRONQUILL. 

Then  I  add:  "  Good-bye,  old  Mundane,"  as  to  couch 

and  dreams  I  go; 

"  I'm  the  bachelor  of  Paint  Creek,  and  my  name  is 

JOSEPH  JOE." 


ADIEU.  187 


ADIEU. 

Oft  the  resonance  of  rhymes 
Future  hearts  and  distant  times 

May  impress ; 
Shall  humanity  to  me, 
Like  my  Kansas  prairies,  be 

Echoless  ? 

IRONQUILL. 


TALES  FROM  FOREIGN  LANDS. 

COMPRISING, — 

MEMORIES:  A  Story  of  German  Love.  By  MAX  MtlLLER. 
GRAZIELLA:  A  Story  of  Italian  Love.    By  ALPHONSE  DE 

LAMARTINE. 
MARIE  :   A  Story  of   Russian   Love.      By  ALEXANDER 

PUSHKIN. 
MADELEINE:   A  Story  of  French  Love.    By  JULES  SAN- 

DEAU. 
MARIANELA:  A  Story  of  Spanish  Love.     By  B.  PEREZ 

GALDOS. 
COUSIN  PHILLIS:   A  Story  of  English  Love.     By  MRS. 

GASKELL.  

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The  series  of  six  volumes  forms,  perhaps,  the  choicest 

addition  to  the  literature  of  the  English  language  that 

has  been  made  in  recent  years. 

Of  "MEMORIES"  the  London  Academy  says: 

It  is  a  prose  poem.  ...  Its  beauty  and  pathos  show  us  a  fresh 

phase  of  a  many-sided  mind  to  which  we  already  owe  large  debts  of 

gratitude. 

Of  "  GRAZIELLA  "  the  Boston  Post  says  : 

It  is  full  of  beautiful  sentiment,  unique  and  graceful  in  style,  of 

course,  as  were  all  the  writings  of  this  distinguished  French  author. 

Of  "  MARIE  "  the  Cincinnati  Gazette  says  : 
It  is  one  of  the  purest,  sweetest  little  narratives  that  we  have  read 
for  a  long  time.     It  is  a  little  classic,  and  a  Russian  classic,  too. 

Of  "  MADELEINE"  the  N.  Y.  Evening  Mail  says: 

It  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite  love  tales  that  ever  was  written, 

abounding  in  genuine  pathos  and  sparkling  wit,  and  BO  pure  in  its 

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This  famous  series  of  Tales  from  Foreign  Lands  receives  a  rich 

acquisition  in  this  exquisitely  beautiful  and  pathetic  story  by  the 

great  Spanish  writer. 

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It  is  hardly  possible  to  read  a  page  of  Mrs.  Gaskell's  writings 

without  getting  some  good  from  it.    Her  style  is  clear  and  forcible, 

the  tone  pure,  the  matter  wholesome. 

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LAUREL-CROWNED  VERSE. 

EDITED  BY  FRANCIS  F.  BROWNE. 


The  Lady  of  the  Lake.     By  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.     A  Romaunt.    By  LORD 

BYRON. 
Lalla   Rookh.      An    Oriental   Romance.      By   THOMAS 

MOORE. 

Idylls  of  the  King.     By  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON. 
Paradise  Lost.     By  JOHN  MILTON. 
The  Iliad  of  Homer.     Translated  by  ALEXANDER  POPE. 

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The  special  merit  of  these  editions,  aside  from  the  graceful  form 
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interesting  matter  is  revived,  but  the  editor  himself  refrains  from 
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A  series  noted  for  their  integral  worth  and  typographical  beau 
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A  contribution  to  current  literature  of  quite  unique  value  and 
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These  volumes  are  models  of  good  taste  in  covers,  typography, 
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LAUREL-CROWNED  LETTERS. 

The  Best  Letters  of  Lord  Chesterfield.     Edited,  with 
an  Introduction,  by  EDWARD  GILPIN  JOHNSON. 

The  Best   Letters  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu. 
Edited,  with  an  Introduction  by  OCTAVE  THANET. 

The  Best  Letters  of  Horace  Walpole      Edited,  with  an 
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The  Best  Letters  of  Madame  de  S^vigne.     Edited,  with 
an  Introduction,  by  EDWARD  PLAYFAIR  ANDERSON. 

The  Best  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb.     Edited,  with  an 
Introduction,  by  EDWARD  GILPIN  JOHNSON. 

The   Best   Letters  of  Percy  Bysshe   Shelley.     Edited, 
with  an  Introduction,  by  SHIRLEY  C.  HUGHSON. 

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Amid  the  great  flood  of  ephemeral  literature  that  pours  from  the 
press,  it  is  wen  to  be  recalled  by  such  publications  as  the  "  Laurel- 
Crowned  Letters'1  to  books  that  have  won  an  abiding  place  in  the 
classical  literature  of  the  world.— The  Independent,  New  York. 

We  cannot  commend  too  highly  the  good  taste  and  judgment 
displayed  by  publishers  and  editors  alike  in  the  preparation  of  these 
charming  volumes.  They  are  in  every  respect  creditable  to  those 
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*  *  *  A  contribution  to  current  literature  of  quite  unique  value 
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amount  of  matter  one  likes  to  find  in  books  of  this  class,  and  are  in 
all  ways  very  attractive.— Standard,  Chicago. 

It  was  an  admirable  idea  to  issue  in  such  beautiful  and  handy 
form  a  selection  full  enough  to  give  an  adequate  idea  of  the  writers 
and  their  times,  yet  smaU  enough  to  require  not  more  than  a  due 
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LAUREL-CROWNED  TALES. 

Abdallah;  or,  The  Four-Leaved  Shamrock.  By  EDOUARD 
LABOULAYE.     Translated  by  MARY  L.  BOOTH. 

Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia.     By  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

Raphael ;  or,  Pages  of  the  Book  of  Life  at  Twenty. 
From  the  French  of  ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE. 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.     By  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 
The  Epicurean.     By  THOMAS  MOORE. 
Picciola.     By  X.  B.  SAINTINE. 

Other  volumes  in  preparation. 

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In  planning  this  series,  the  publishers  have  aimed  at 
a  form  which  should  combine  an  unpretentious  elegance 
suited  to  the  fastidious  book-lover,  with  an  inexpensive- 
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It  is  the  intent  to  admit  to  the  series  only  such  tales 
as  have  for  years  or  for  generations  commended  them 
selves  not  only  to  the  fastidious  and  the  critical,  but  also 
to  the  great  multitude  of  the  refined  reading  public, — 
tales,  in  short,  which  combine  purity  and  classical  beauty 
of  style  with  perennial  popularity. 


These  "Laurel  Crowned"  volumes  are  little  gems  in  their  way, 
and  just  the  books  to  pick  up  at  odd  times  and  at  intervals  of  wait 
ing. — Herald,  Chicago. 

The  publishers  have  shown  excellent  discrimination  in  their 
choice  of  material  for  their  projected  library  of  choice  fiction,  and 
they  have  certainly  given  these  initial  volumes  a  form  that  bespeaks 
the  warmest  praise.  They  are  the  books  that  the  student  of  literature 
will  not  be  ashamed  to  have  upon  his  shelves,  and  at  the  same  time 
they  are  not  too  fine  for  general  use  in  the  family  library,  for  which 
they  are  eminently  fitted.— The  Beacon,  Boston. 


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3' 


